How a University is “Transforming” its Humanities and Social Sciences^[a] Program

Note: These are Jeffrey Ding’s informal and unofficial translations -- all credit for the original goes to the authors and the original text linked below. These are informal translations and all credit for the original work goes to the authors. Others are welcome to share excerpts from these translations as long as my original translation is cited. Commenters should be aware that the Google Doc is also publicly shareable by link. These translations are part of the ChinAI newsletter - weekly-updated library of translations from Chinese thinkers on AI-related issues: https://chinai.substack.com/ 

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Author: Xu Shuang [徐爽‍]

Source: 冷杉RECORD (produced by Phoenix Weekly)

Date: July 16, 2025

Original Mandarin: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/98wVbe8hc0o9pgsD348Ikg 

Real-time monitoring data in the classroom is redefining what constitutes a “good class.”

Unbeknownst to her, one of Qiaoqiao's classes was observed online by more than 20 supervisors—who will then evaluate and score the lesson. The numbers will directly impact her professional title evaluation (promotion)  and even the entire college's education ranking.

More than that, when it comes to her daily teaching, AI-assisted supervision is tracking her student engagement rates. Qiaoqiao, a sociology professor at a 211 university, is currently experiencing firsthand a teaching assessment transformation. This fixed model requires them to dedicate several minutes to a story-based introduction and several minutes to explaining key concepts; every class must include blackboard writing; teachers cannot simply stay at the podium but must frequently walk among the students and engage in eye contact. In this way, a lesson is disassembled into a series of quantifiable indicators.

Most of the supervisors have STEM backgrounds. They cannot understand the liberal arts teaching model: Why are there no key knowledge points? Why does the lecture feel like a chat? Qiaoqiao received the following comment, "Too high and mighty, just talking about her research experience in class." This frustrated and confused her. Her daily discussions with colleagues revolve around how to teach arts and humanities in universities today.

In her view, university education should be the transmission of “Technique and Tao"—the former being methods and skills, the latter the wisdom to understand society and care for oneself and others. However, these elements, which cannot be simplified into key knowledge points, have lost their place in the new evaluation system.

Since this summer, at least five universities have suspended undergraduate admissions for sociology programs, and many more arts and humanities programs face the risk of closure. While Qiaoqiao's university is still persisting with their programs, one of her primary tasks as a head teacher is “strictly controlling the rate of students changing majors.”  This creates a conflict in her mind: she understands the problems with arts/humanities education, but she has to protect and maintain the system. After all, she needs her job.

More alienation is occurring. Qiaoqiao realizes that she is unknowingly becoming a data provider for various AI education products and a labeling worker on large-scale model "knowledge graphs." "We might as well let AI teach; what's the point of having us teachers?" Humanities teachers joked privately.

Qiaoqiao's predicament is a microcosm of the current situation for humanities and social science teachers in universities. What we want to explore further is when this data has become the standard for measuring everything, how much space can be reserved for values ​​that cannot be quantified—freedom of thought, humanistic concern, and critical thinking? In this crisis in the humanities, the real damage may not just be to a few individuals or a few majors, but rather that universities are losing their most precious function: cultivating independent thinkers.

The following is Qiaoqiao's account:

Becoming a "Data Worker"

A major concern for us humanities teachers is the current teaching assessment system.

Previously, it was random checks; maybe one or two classes a semester would be attended by a supervisor. They would use forms to score, looking at whether you interacted with students, whether there was any ideological and political content in class, etc.

Now, there are cameras in the classrooms; every class is recorded and uploaded to the cloud. Supervisors can listen to the classes in real time online, without the teachers knowing. It was only after the semester ended that I learned that over 20 supervisors had once audited my online class.

Starting this semester, AI also assists supervisors in evaluation and scoring. It can recognize surveillance footage and count how many students look up when you're explaining a particular concept. This "head-up rate" affects our scores—this teaching evaluation system has specific requirements for undergraduate teaching, such as each class must strictly follow a fixed format: a few minutes for introduction, a few minutes for explaining key concepts, group discussions, summarizing and extending the discussion, and then assigning homework.

Evaluation scores affect teachers' promotions and even the entire college's education ranking.

This evaluation system has a very STEM-oriented understanding of the classroom, believing that a class must have clearly defined knowledge points. The evaluation criteria are also very external; for example, blackboard writing is mandatory, otherwise points will be deducted; and teachers cannot just stay on the podium while lecturing; they must occasionally walk among the students and have some eye contact. The entire teaching model is designed very much like a primary or secondary school classroom.

To attract students, the curriculum design emphasizes the introduction of AI tools—products from various educational companies through university-industry collaborations. For example, AI is given knowledge points to generate pre-class and post-class exercises. Teachers input, label, and review these knowledge points, forming a so-called "knowledge graph" through modeling technology—in a sense, each teacher becomes a "data worker."

Currently, various educational reform projects are also related to AI. It seems as if a class is only be considered good if it incorporates AI technology. However, I think these approaches are rather flashy. They might be useful for STEM students, but humanities students don't really need such methods, and this also reflects the logic of exam-oriented education.

A friend who works in teacher training told me that this is mainly because there is currently no standard for "how university classes should be taught," so they can only apply the curriculum design models of junior high and senior high schools to formulate these teaching requirements.

However, I still feel that a university classroom, especially in the arts and humanities, shouldn't be so rigidly limited in its teaching methods. Throughout my upbringing, I've felt that the core of a good humanities class stems from the teacher's own thoughts and personal charisma. Sometimes, the humanities don't convey specific knowledge points, but instead a perspective on analysis and problem-solving.

Behind all of this is the question of “Technique vs. Tao [术与道].” We can talk about so-called "techniques," such as how to conduct interviews and design interview outlines, but more importantly, it's about "Tao"—a spiritual philosophy, how you understand things, and how you approach others and society with genuine care. However, I personally feel that the current knowledge-point-oriented teaching templates fail to convey this “Tao.”

I don't even know how to teach this class anymore. In discussions with other humanities professors in our department, everyone expressed similar confusion about this template-based teaching evaluation system.

At our university, it's mostly science and engineering professors who supervise our department's classes. Many of them can't understand humanities classes, wondering how there could be no knowledge points, and how the whole class could feel like a casual chat with students.

For example, in a course that teaches research methods, I would talk about conducting fieldwork in villages, how to handle complex interpersonal relationships, who to contact on the first visit, and how to assess relationships between people. These are more practical for students, and I would share my own experiences. However, the supervisors couldn't understand this; their comments were, "Too high and mighty, just talking about her research experience in class."

Another time, I mentioned choosing a field site in class and concluded with a reflection, "Sometimes where you choose to do your fieldwork is actually an arrangement of fate." The supervisor seized on this and wrote in their comments that I was promoting fatalism with students and that there were problems with my ideology. I was so angry I laughed.

I think this kind of observation system is quite unfair: they take one of your classes, have a completely untrained teacher evaluate it using a very standardized method, and there's no room for discussion regarding the grade or conclusion.

Perhaps it's because universities have become increasingly strict in controlling the content and ideas of teaching, so they don't want teachers to have too much room for personal expression. They still want the key points of each class clearly listed and thoroughly explained, as if they want to limit what can be said as much as possible. Actually, the feedback from students is quite good. But as a research-oriented teacher, I need at least a "good [良]" grade to be eligible for promotion. The thought of supervisors possibly observing my classes unseen at any moment inevitably affects my teaching style and content. After all, I also need to meet the standards.

Sometimes I wonder, why bother? I could simply compile some knowledge points and let AI design the course for me, because that standard is very procedural and linear, perfectly suited for AI. On the contrary, you find there’s not much space, when you really want to teach students something.

We joke privately that it's better to let AI teach; what's the point of having us teachers? I used to be very passionate about teaching, but this whole situation is quite discouraging and frustrating.

My colleagues are completely used to it; whatever the supervisor says, they just say, "Okay, okay, we'll revise it." A colleague advised me, "Just prepare adequately and that's enough. Don't get so emotionally invested in teaching, always thinking about what you'll bring to students and how to improve. Teaching is just a small part of the promotion evaluation; your core task right now is your research. It's not worth spending so much time on teaching."

This is quite contradictory. The original intention of this teaching assessment system was to encourage teachers to value teaching—because previously, too many university professors were focused on research, and undergraduate teaching was often neglected. But ultimately, it has resulted in teachers not wanting to invest in teaching.

AI Assignments

I deeply felt the "humanities are doomed" moment every time I received student assignments generated by AI—this is a common worry for humanities teachers both domestically and internationally.

Recently, 15%-20% of the book reports I received were clearly copied directly from AI-generated results. After grading so many assignments, I can even tell at a glance which AI the student used.

***Excerpted out five paragraphs about how students that rely too heavily on AI lose out on gaining critical thinking and writing skills***

“Low rate of students changing majors is how I can explain myself to the higher-ups.”

The impact of AI, coupled with changes in the overall socio-economic environment, has left many humanities programs in universities in a precarious position.

There's an interesting phenomenon here. In our university the Chinese Literature department has the lowest program rating and the overall faculty strength is not strong, yet its annual college entrance examination scores are the highest in the entire college, resulting in the best student quality. Conversely, the Sociology department, with the highest program rating, has the lowest admission scores.

This is because, in the general public's perception, the Chinese Literature department has higher recognition among humanities and social science majors, further reinforced by opinions like Zhang Xuefeng^[d]'s "Chinese Literature majors are good at getting into civil service." Students tend to follow these public perceptions when applying, rather than looking at the college's program ranking. Although the Chinese Literature department has a low rating within the college and has faced the risk of being shut down multiple times, it has barely survived because of its high college entrance examination scores (among entering students).

In contrast, a teacher from the College of Architecture and Urban Planning told me that he has clearly felt a decline in the quality of students. During the booming period of the architecture industry, they were among the top programs in the university, but now they are struggling to recruit students, with the highest transfer rate in the entire university every year.

This year, as an advisor for first-year students, my main and most worrying task is preventing students from transferring. The transfer rate of a class will affect the discipline evaluation and even determine whether the program can continue to exist. If our major is canceled, our jobs might be in jeopardy, or we might be reassigned to other colleges like Marxism or Public Administration, where survival would be even more difficult.^[e]

The rate of students changing majors is also a top concern for the college leadership. They've held special meetings to emphasize the severity of the situation, stating that the entire college could be dissolved at any time, and that every year some majors face the risk of being eliminated. For two consecutive years, the college has used every possible connection and effort to save these majors.

Therefore, when students come to me about changing majors, from this perspective, I still emphasize how good our discipline is, but I don't directly discourage them. Instead, I suggest they first attend classes in the major they're considering, see if they can understand it, and whether they truly like it before making a decision.

Because first-year students often change majors rather blindly. They lack in-depth understanding of the actual content of their target major, their fit with the major, and what kind of work they will do in the future. Their understanding comes partly from limited experiences in high school and partly from stereotypes shaped by social media, especially from online celebrity mentors like Zhang Xuefeng.

Most students who actually attended the classes realized the subject wasn't what they imagined, and many gave up. This attempt was good for them and relieved me. A low rate of students switching majors allowed me to explain myself to the higher-ups.

Zhang Xuefeng can indeed influence the admission scores for certain majors and schools to some extent. For students with limited family support who can't afford the cost of trial and error, his advice might be helpful, but he also reinforces societal stereotypes about certain disciplines. His understanding of some disciplines is flawed; his advice essentially exploits information asymmetry, but many people genuinely need this information.

I noticed that during Zhang Xuefeng's live streams, he usually first learns about the students' family background before giving targeted advice. However, many people selectively extract his words and use them as an overall evaluation of the discipline. In reality, judging whether someone is suitable for a particular direction requires more than just family background; personality is even more important.

For higher-level students considering pursuing a PhD or continuing down the path of humanities and social sciences, my advice is that they must be exceptionally determined, have their own opinions, be independent, and derive satisfaction from the process. I wouldn't recommend humanities and social science research for someone who simply follows instructions step by step.

Overall, I can sense that students today are more anxious than before. Some freshmen, upon entering university, immediately asked me how to get a “postgraduate recommendation^[f]” for graduate school. If they can't get a postgraduate recommendation can they graduate early to qualify for the previous year's postgraduate recommendation, or have an extra year to prepare for the graduate entrance exam? These are their biggest concerns every day. They've been exposed to too many experience-sharing posts on social media and the anxieties conveyed by society. Their vision of the future revolves around postgraduate recommendations for graduate school, the entrance exam, and the civil service exam. Given these premises, how will they spend their four years of university?

Students are trapped in an evaluation system. Teachers are the same; teaching evaluations, publishing papers, promotions, various grants, talent awards—it's incredibly stressful. Academic life is also boring because its evaluation dimensions are becoming increasingly singular.

In recent years, many universities have seen budget cuts for humanities and social science programs, and even the elimination of certain majors, meaning many teachers will lose their jobs. "211" universities and above are currently in a slightly better position—they generally have more funding—but for ordinary universities and below, especially those without master's or doctoral programs, the impact is the greatest.

A business administration professor at a local second-tier university said that their promotions process now only considers horizontal research projects—how many tens of thousands of RMB in research funding can be secured — which is very unfavorable for humanities and social science researchers. I also heard that professors at another local university, to meet the annual requirements for horizontal funding, have to have relatives' companies handle the accounting for funds deposited into their accounts and then transferred back.

Even if some schools haven't yet experienced budget cuts, the overall competition in the humanities and social sciences academic community has increased significantly—due to the expansion of university enrollment, the number of humanities students has increased dramatically in recent years. A clear example is the National Social Science Fund of China (NSSFC); previously, it was said that the young scholar program would favor junior scholars, but now everyone generally feels that the young scholar program is harder to apply for than the regular program. This is because applicants are mostly recent PhD graduates from prestigious universities, who have received relatively comprehensive training, and their research papers are of higher quality than those competing for the regular track projects.

Now, the topics I can apply for in various research projects are becoming increasingly fewer; I need to try to focus on a limited number of popular topics. A professor once said that humanities research has no forbidden zones, but there are limitations on what gets published. The scope of publication sometimes depends on one's position in the academic community. For a junior faculty member like me, the only option is to pursue research that might not be my favorite but is easier to publish, to build a foothold in the academic community.

Many universities are also increasing performance-based pay for humanities faculty. I now need to work extremely hard just to meet the performance targets. As faculty members, besides teaching and research, we have a mountain of administrative tasks to handle, such as departmental scheduling, research performance statistics, and student graduation procedures. If the department is hosting lectures or academic conferences, we faculty members have to manage everything down to the smallest details: booking tickets, reception, venue arrangements, and brochure production. My phone rings non-stop from morning till night, and as a newcomer still in my evaluation period, I hardly have the right to refuse.

Are the humanities useless?

So I often wonder, what is the true value of the humanities today?

When I conduct research in various places, the first thing local officials say to me is, "Why do you sociologists only see the dark side of society?" Undeniably, criticism itself has value, but this statement also reflects a fact of “uselessness”—that I'm constantly observing various negative social phenomena, yet I have no way to change them.

What was the purpose of all that effort I put into writing the thesis? Was it for promotion? For performance evaluation? Every day I meticulously crafted it according to that academic paradigm, constantly thinking about how my research could be embedded within an academic framework to engage with a particular theory. But what exactly does this knowledge production bring? This is something I've always doubted, and it's my biggest source of confusion now.

I believe many humanities majors lack a clear focus; they aren't employment-oriented, yet graduates face the issue of professionalization. In a declining economy, positions that don't directly contribute to economic growth are the first to be cut, so it is understandable and normal for such disciplines to be scaled back.

I have mixed feelings. From a broader perspective, I think those that should be eliminated should be eliminated, since the market doesn't need them. I don't think our university's undergraduate teaching is particularly good, or that it trains students to be highly competitive in the job market. The department recently applied for a doctoral program, and I've been wondering what we can do with a group of PhDs. But a colleague said that if the doctoral program application fails, our major might be gone, and we'll have to transfer to other colleges. I feel a bit of a crisis, because I don't want to go to another college (within the university).

The preservation of many disciplines is not for the benefit of students, but for those with vested interests like myself who teach at universities. We fear that the elimination of these disciplines will affect our stable jobs and livelihoods, so we constantly shout slogans to keep them. But how much significance do these disciplines, as university majors, actually have for students and society? That's questionable.

Sometimes I feel that universities don't need to admit so many people to the humanities, nor do they need so many full-time researchers. There's no need for everyone to crowd into one track, producing things that are meaningless to the world. The humanities need a freer space to cultivate true masters. But the current environment makes me feel that university humanities are becoming increasingly vulgar and narrow-minded.

On the other hand, I think universities need a universal humanities education. They should offer more general education courses and civics courses, and integrate relevant humanities courses with each major (such as STEM fields), so that students can be inspired by the humanities beyond their professional knowledge.

Looking back on my undergraduate years, I've long forgotten the specific knowledge points, but I can still recall a few words from professors in class. They might represent viewpoints, but they truly influenced me for a long time. For example, one professor said that the university classroom is a pure and beautiful space that transcends the mundane, and what we experience in that classroom can help us overcome the vulgarity and boredom of daily life—this profoundly impacted my understanding of the essence of university education.

I also remember professors discussing how the cage of modernity makes everyone impatient for quick success, talking about the rise of pragmatism in modern America^[h], and how people within it scrutinized their own psychology… These theories deeply resonated with me at the time. I was a sophomore then, deeply confused about "who I am," and frantically chasing GPA and everything else—much like many students today. These words helped me understand my predicament then; I realized I didn't need to fit myself into a template, and I could open myself up to the future.

Now, I want to pass on these same ideas to my students.

I tell my students, whether you're an undergraduate or a master's student, don't see this as a painful process, but rather as a valuable gap in your life. Use this time to calm down, read good books, find questions that truly interest you, and understand them thoroughly. After you start working, much of your time may be meaningless and repetitive, and you'll rarely have so much time to read seemingly "useless" things or solve a problem that no one cares about but that you find important. What you learn and gain with this "usefulness of uselessness" mindset may support you for a longer time in the future.

For example, when teaching students how to conduct fieldwork, I want to emphasize a concept: fieldwork is actually a process of learning to be a person. You need to learn to resocialize within a domain, to become a local, without prejudice or preconceived notions, to truly accept them, to become them, and then to re-examine and reflect on your own life from their perspective.

Many students have given feedback after class saying that the humanities provided a structured perspective for understanding problems, making them realize that these are not just personal issues, which brought them comfort and strength. More importantly, when society is so technology-driven, and everyone adheres to a single evaluation system, there’s a need for some forces from the humanities to step forward and tell you that people shouldn’t live like this.

Regarding the so-called "crisis of the humanities," I think it's important to clarify whether "humanities" refers to the necessity of a discipline's existence as it relates to value in the market, or its role as a perspective, knowledge, or intellectual resource. If it's the latter, I don't feel a crisis.

On the contrary, I think that from a general education perspective, many people need the humanities now. In an era of abundance, where "making money is the hard truth," and people are engaged in fulfilling activities and anticipating a better future, they might not need the humanities to provide a sense of value. But now, when people have lost their imagination for the future and are increasingly confused about reality, the humanities can bring some reflection and care.

I recall a few days ago, when I was talking to a STEM student about future retirement issues, he said, "Why are you so worried? Once we have robots, everything will be fine.’ In the eyes of a humanities student, this answer naturally needs to be questioned. Lately, for some reason, Weber's quote keeps echoing in my mind: “specialists without spirit, sensualists without heart; this nullity imagines that it has attained a level of civilization never before achieved.^[i]” And the value of the humanities today lies precisely in helping us find our own soul and heart.

***(To protect the interviewee's privacy, Qiaoqiao is a pseudonym)