I’m teaching something called “Geography and History of the World” for the first time this year. The state standards for this course are not exactly… intuitive.
For example, there’s very little about what you probably expect when thinking of “Geography.” No “Five Themes of Geography,” no covering regions of the world a unit at a time, not even some token concern for the difference between an island, peninsula, cape, or isthmus.
That’s fine, except in place of “How do latitude and longitude work?”, we get things like “Map the spread of innovative art forms and scientific thought from their origins to other world regions. Analyze how the spread of these ideas influenced developments in art and science for different places and regions of the world.”
I’m not complaining, but if I’m going to lead a group of high school freshmen through mapping the spread of all philosophy, knowledge, and culture around the globe since the beginning of time, we’re going to have to make some cuts in other areas – like English, Math, lunch, or letting them go home in the evening.
Because I live in a fairly conservative state, I was a little surprised to discover this pair of standards for world religions:
2.1 Map the development over time of world religions from their points of origin, and identify those that exhibit a high degree of local and/or international concentration. Examples: Universal religions/beliefs: Judaism (Jerusalem), Christianity (Jerusalem), Islam (Mecca, Medina), and Buddhism (Varanasi); Ethnic religions: Hinduism (Indus River), Confucianism (Qufu), Taoism (Yellow River), Shintoism (Japan), Sikhism (South Asia).
2.2 Analyze and assess the rise of fundamentalist movements in the world’s major religions during contemporary times (1980–present), and describe the relationships between religious fundamentalism and the secularism and modernism associated with the Western tradition. Examples: Shiite Islamic fundamentalism in Iran and its view of the West in general and the United States in particular as “The Great Satan” (1970–present); fundamentalism in India and its relationship to the government of India (1980–present); ISIS; U.S. Christianity (1970s to present); Myanmur/Burma (Buddhism).
The first part, about the development and spread of world religions, is pretty standard World History stuff. The second, though, was new to me – and I don’t just mean the decision to change the spelling of “Myanmar.” I understood what fundamentalist movements were, of course – I’ve been in one before and it didn’t turn out well. I just didn’t expect a deeply red state to want me to compare the Christian version in the U.S. with the Islamic version in Iran. I thought that was the sort of thing that gets teachers in the news and our names shared on right-wing social media so it’s easier to hunt us down.
Still, it did present a dilemma. I wasn’t sure I trusted myself to formulate direct instruction for this one. Because I teach high schoolers, they’re not particularly fragile if the occasional “point of view” slips through (as long as they realize my love and respect for them and whatever they’re into is genuine). But I didn’t think I could pull this off without sounding like, well… me.
And that’s how a bunch of white supremacists who’ve clearly never even READ the New Testament turned America into a neo-Christian Nationalist dumpster fire – and YES, that will be on the TEST!
I was going to need a better approach while still covering the required material.
I started off with a classic teacher cop-out move – I found a really good video that covered most of the basics of religious fundamentalism. It was narrated by some lofty professor with a strong accent who was unafraid of speaking plainly but also had that detached academic interest in the subject that I’ve always envied in those more emotionally mature than myself. I put together some questions and an outline for students to complete, and the foundation was laid.
But what about those examples in the standards? There are no doubt materials out there which could cover several of these, but I didn’t have them and lacked an easy way to procure them in time to be of use. That’s when I had an idea.
I’ve written before about my newbie-level experiences with Claude, my favorite AI. While I don’t share either the dread or the paradigm-shattering enthusiasm of some when it comes to artificial intelligence, I have found it insanely helpful for a variety of things in the past several months. One thing I discovered early on that Claude was excellent at was creating fictional scenarios which captured genuine historical and cultural dynamics.
In my limited experience, Claude works best as a collaborator – neither entirely in charge nor too readily ignored when it periodically goes in a slightly different direction than you expect. I shared the standards and we started kicking around ideas. What we landed on was a set of scenarios – three for each fundamentalist movement I decided to cover – which put students in the minds of people experiencing those changes from different perspectives. Here’s where Claude’s lack of emotional baggage or human bias became an enormous strength. It was able to draw on whatever massive database of all known everything it has and create trios of vignettes with far more poignance and historical-cultural insight than I could have hoped.
I share them with students, who work in small groups to try to figure out what they can based only on the information in the scenarios. If they can’t pinpoint specific times and places, they should be able to point to the clues they’d use to look them up (which we do later in the process).
The materials I created from this collaboration are posted on the Classroom Resources section of this site and also attached below if you’re interested. (There’s also an answer key and a short article of background information for those of you not intimately familiar with the subject matter.) I’m sharing the various “personal perspectives” here for those who might be curious enough to read through them, but not quite motivated enough to start opening links.
Hey, I’m realistic sometimes.
Religious Fundamentalism Scenario ‘A’ (See Answer Key to Ruin It Before You’ve Started)
Perspective #1:
My father used to say we were living in the best of both worlds.
Our house had marble floors imported from Italy and a swimming pool where my friends and I would spend summer afternoons listening to American music on my Sony radio. My mother wore beautiful French dresses to the embassy parties, and I was planning to study engineering in London after graduation. We had servants, a driver, and enough oil money flowing through our country that it seemed like prosperity would last forever.
But my grandmother never seemed comfortable with any of it. She would mutter prayers under her breath when she saw my sister’s short skirts, and she’d turn away when my parents served alcohol to their foreign guests. “This is not our way,” she would whisper to me. “Allah sees everything.”
I used to roll my eyes at her old-fashioned thinking. Now I’m not so sure she was wrong.
Everything changed so quickly. One day we were the envy of our neighbors, and the next, crowds were filling the streets chanting about corruption and foreign devils. The religious teachers who had been quietly ignored for years suddenly had thousands hanging on their every word. They spoke of purifying our land, of returning to the true path of the Prophet.
My parents are talking about leaving, about taking their money and starting over somewhere safe. But part of me wonders if we shouldn’t stay and be part of whatever comes next. Maybe my grandmother was right. Maybe we lost something important along the way to all this wealth and Western influence.
The old certainties are gone, but I’m starting to think they were built on sand anyway.
Perspective #2:
For thirty years I have taught the same lessons, and for thirty years my students have grown fewer and fewer.
When I was young, families would send their brightest children to study the sacred texts, to memorize the beautiful words of the Quran, to understand the proper way to live according to Allah’s will. My classroom was full of eager faces learning Arabic, studying the sayings of the Prophet, preparing to be religious scholars or at least faithful believers.
But as the oil money flowed, parents began to dream different dreams for their children. Engineering, business, medicine—anything that would connect them to the modern world and its riches. The government built new schools with foreign teachers, teaching foreign ideas. Young people began to dress like Americans, to listen to Western music, to forget the prayers their grandparents had died protecting.
I watched my beloved culture slowly disappearing, replaced by shopping centers and nightclubs and television programs that mocked everything sacred. The rulers seemed more interested in pleasing foreign powers than in serving Allah. Our women began to dress like European women, our men began to drink alcohol openly, our children grew up speaking English better than Arabic.
But Allah is patient, and His truth is eternal.
Now, finally, people are remembering who they truly are. They come to my classes again, hungry for authentic knowledge, tired of the emptiness that foreign wealth has brought. Young men who once cared only for cars and parties now ask me to teach them about Islamic law, about how a truly faithful society should be organized.
The corrupt government that sold our souls for Western approval is crumbling. In its place, something pure and true is being born. It will not be easy—there will be resistance from those who profited from our humiliation. But Allah’s will cannot be stopped forever.
Finally, we can build a society worthy of our faith.
Perspective #3:
My daughter asked me yesterday why I stopped wearing makeup.
How do I explain to a twelve-year-old that the world she was born into no longer exists? That the revolution we all cheered for—the one that was supposed to free us from a corrupt king who cared more about American approval than his own people—somehow became something none of us expected?
I remember the excitement in those early days. Finally, we would have a government that truly represented us, not one imposed by foreign powers. Finally, we could be proud of our identity instead of constantly trying to imitate the West. The religious leaders spoke of justice, of caring for the poor, of building a society based on moral principles instead of greed.
But justice, it turns out, has many definitions.
Now there are new rules about how I must dress, how I can work, whom I can speak to. My husband warns me to be careful what I say, even to neighbors we’ve known for years. My daughter’s school has changed all the textbooks. The music I used to love is banned. The books I treasured have been removed from libraries.
I am not against faith—I pray five times a day as my mother taught me, I respect the Prophet’s teachings, I want my daughter to understand our religious heritage. But I also want her to think freely, to make choices, to become whatever Allah intended her to become.
Sometimes I feel like we traded one kind of oppression for another. The old regime crushed us with foreign values and corrupt materialism. Now we’re being crushed by rigid interpretations of our own faith, enforced by men who seem more interested in control than in spiritual truth.
I put on the modest clothing each morning and I keep my thoughts to myself. But in my heart, I mourn for the future my daughter will never have—and for the past I can never reclaim.
Religious Fundamentalism Scenario ‘B’ (See Answer Key to Ruin It Before You’ve Started)
Perspective #4:
My grandfather built this church with his own hands in 1923, and I’ve been coming here every Sunday for forty-seven years.
We used to be the heart of this community. During the Depression, families lined up at our soup kitchen. During the war, we held prayer services for the boys overseas and rolled bandages for the Red Cross. When the civil rights movement came through town, our congregation—after much soul-searching and more than a few heated meetings—decided to open our doors to everyone, because that’s what Christ would have done.
We believed in feeding the hungry, welcoming strangers, and working for justice. Sure, we read the Bible and took it seriously, but we also believed in using our minds, asking questions, and serving others quietly without making a big show of it.
But something’s changing in the religious landscape around here. There’s a new church out by the highway—one of those massive buildings with its own television studio and a parking lot bigger than our downtown. They’re pulling families away from congregations like ours with contemporary music, dynamic preaching, and simple answers to complicated questions.
Their pastor was on TV last week talking about how Christians need to “take back America” and elect leaders who share “biblical values.” He spoke about abortion, homosexuality, and prayer in schools with such certainty, such fire. Meanwhile, our pastor gave a thoughtful sermon about caring for refugees, and I watched half the congregation check their watches.
I worry we’re losing something important—the idea that faith should make us more humble, not more certain; more compassionate, not more judgmental. But maybe I’m just getting old and the world is passing me by.
Perspective #5:
Three years ago, I was drinking a bottle of wine every night and my marriage was falling apart.
Sarah had taken the kids to her mother’s house, and I was sitting alone in our empty living room, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. That’s when my neighbor Mike invited me to his church’s men’s breakfast. I almost said no—I’d grown up Catholic but hadn’t been to mass in years, and frankly, I thought most Christians were hypocrites.
But something about the way Mike talked about his faith was different. Not preachy, not judgmental—just real. He admitted he’d made mistakes, struggled with anger, nearly lost his family too. “Jesus changed my life,” he said simply. “Not all at once, but day by day.”
The first time I walked into that church, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. The music was incredible—not like the old hymns I remembered, but contemporary songs that spoke to my heart. When the pastor preached, it was like he was speaking directly to me. He talked about grace, about second chances, about how God could redeem even the biggest failures.
I gave my life to Christ that morning, and everything started to change. Not magically—I still had to work on my drinking, still had to rebuild trust with Sarah. But now I had a community supporting me, biblical principles to guide me, and a personal relationship with Jesus that gave meaning to every day.
The church is growing so fast they’re building a new sanctuary. We’re starting Christian schools, running food banks, sending missionaries around the world. There’s talk about getting more involved in local politics, supporting candidates who share our values on family issues.
Sometimes I wonder if we’re getting too caught up in culture wars and political battles. But then I remember how lost I was before I found this faith, and I think: if this message can transform lives like mine, maybe it really can transform our whole society.
Perspective #6:
The school board meeting last Tuesday changed everything.
I’ve lived in this town for twelve years, ever since David got the job at the insurance company. It’s a good place to raise kids—safe neighborhoods, decent schools, the kind of community where people still wave to each other on the street. Rachel is in fourth grade now, and she loves her teacher, loves learning about science and history and reading everything she can get her hands on.
But lately, there’s been tension I don’t fully understand. It started with complaints about certain books in the school library. Then parents began showing up at board meetings demanding changes to the science curriculum, asking why evolution is taught as fact instead of theory. Last month, someone proposed starting each school day with a moment of silent prayer.
The people pushing for these changes seem nice enough—they’re neighbors, parents who clearly love their children and want what’s best for them. They talk about moral values, about protecting kids from inappropriate material, about respecting the religious heritage that built this country. They’re organized, passionate, and they vote.
But I keep thinking about Rachel, about the questions she asks, about how excited she gets when she learns something new. What happens to her curiosity if we start deciding which books are acceptable, which scientific theories can be discussed, which ideas are safe for young minds?
I’m not anti-religion—I was raised Jewish, though we’re not particularly observant. David grew up Methodist. We want Rachel to understand different beliefs, to respect people of faith, to develop her own sense of meaning and purpose. But we also want her to think critically, to question, to explore.
At Tuesday’s meeting, I found myself standing up to speak for the first time in my life. My voice shook, but I said what I believe: that schools should be places where all children can learn and grow, regardless of their family’s religious beliefs.
The room got very quiet. I’m not sure everyone appreciated what I had to say.
Religious Fundamentalism Scenario ‘C’ (See Answer Key to Ruin It Before You’ve Started)
Perspective #7:
My father used to tell me we were living in someone else’s country.
Not literally, of course—our family has farmed this land for eight generations, long before the British ever arrived. But after independence, it often felt like our own government was embarrassed by us, by our temples, by our festivals, by everything that made us who we are.
The leaders spoke constantly about being “secular” and “modern,” as if our ancient traditions were somehow backward. They gave special privileges to minorities while treating the majority culture—our culture—as if it were a problem to be managed rather than a heritage to be celebrated. In school, my children learned more about foreign civilizations than about their own great epics, the Ramayana and Mahabharata.
But something is changing now. There’s a new political movement that isn’t ashamed to say this is a land of temples, not just a “secular republic.” They speak of reclaiming our rightful place, of building a nation that reflects our true character instead of trying to imitate the West.
Last month, thousands of us traveled to that contested site where a mosque stands on what many believe was once a great temple. We carried bricks, sang devotional songs, and felt the power of our united faith. The politicians and journalists called us “fanatics,” but we know better. We are simply people who love our motherland and refuse to be silent anymore.
When I see young people learning Sanskrit again, when I hear politicians quoting our scriptures without apology, when I watch crowds celebrating our festivals with new pride—I think my father would finally recognize this as his own country.
Some say we’re going too far, that we’re becoming intolerant. But for decades, tolerance meant we had to suppress our own identity. Maybe it’s time for others to make some adjustments for a change.
Perspective #8:
My grandfather chose to stay when millions of others left.
In 1947, when the great migrations began and trainloads of refugees crossed the new borders in both directions, he could have gone to the newly created country where people of our faith would be the majority. Many of his friends did. But he looked at the fields his father had worked, the graves of his ancestors, the mosque where five generations of our family had prayed, and he said, “This is my home. I will not be driven from it.”
“We are all children of the same soil,” he would tell me. “The same rivers that water their crops water ours. The same sun that blesses their harvest blesses ours.”
For forty years, that seemed to be true. Oh, there were tensions sometimes, small conflicts, but we lived side by side with our neighbors, celebrated each other’s festivals, shared the same hopes for our children’s futures. My best friend in school was a boy from the temple down the road. Politics was something distant, something that happened in the capital.
But lately, the atmosphere has grown heavy, like the air before a monsoon storm. There are new organizations holding rallies, young men with saffron scarves marching through the streets, speakers who talk about “real Indians” and “foreign invaders”—though my family has been here longer than many of theirs.
The worst part is the silence of our old friends. When someone paints slogans on our mosque wall, they look the other way. When politicians make speeches about “appeasing minorities,” they nod along. When my son comes home from school asking why his teacher said his ancestors were destroyers of temples, no one speaks up.
I think about my grandfather’s words and wonder if he was naive, or if something fundamental has changed in the soil we all share. Sometimes I catch myself looking at train schedules and wondering if it’s too late to make the journey he refused to make all those years ago.
Perspective #9:
I’ve spent my entire career studying our civilization’s greatest achievements, and now I watch them being turned into weapons.
As a professor of ancient history, I’ve devoted thirty years to understanding the philosophical depth of our traditions—the sophisticated metaphysics of the Upanishads, the complex ethical teachings of the Gita, the mathematical brilliance of ancient astronomers and mathematicians. Our heritage is extraordinary, worthy of deep pride and careful study.
But something troubling is happening to this heritage in the hands of modern political movements. They’re taking the rich complexity of our culture and reducing it to simple slogans. They’re turning philosophical concepts into tools for exclusion rather than inclusion. They’re using religion as a marker of citizenship rather than a path to wisdom.
I watch politicians quote sacred texts they clearly don’t understand, see young people who know nothing about philosophy or theology but carry flags and chant about religious glory. They speak of building a “pure” nation based on our values, but they seem to understand neither purity nor our actual values.
The irony is painful. The very traditions they claim to defend taught us that truth has many faces, that the divine can be approached through countless paths. “As many faiths, so many paths,” our sages taught. Yet these modern defenders of our faith seem to believe there is only one true way, only one acceptable identity for our nation.
My university colleagues are increasingly nervous. Some have stopped teaching certain topics, worried about how their lectures might be interpreted. A few have even suggested that I, as someone who studies ancient traditions sympathetically, should speak out more forcefully in support of the movement.
But I cannot celebrate something that takes the profound wisdom of our ancestors and turns it into a narrow nationalism. I cannot call myself a defender of our heritage while watching that heritage be fundamentally distorted.
I love my culture too much to let it be reduced to a political slogan.