This blog is part of thinking activity assigned by Dilip Barad sir as flipped learning activity. To clear the basic concept of Digital Humanities. Worksheet
1. What is Digital Humanities? What's it doing in English Department?
Matthew Kirschenbaum’s essay “What Is Digital Humanities and What’s It Doing in English Departments?” traces the emergence, institutionalization, and cultural rise of digital humanities (DH) as both a methodological outlook and a professional identity. He begins by stressing that DH is less about a single set of texts or technologies and more about a shared methodological perspective on how computing intersects with humanistic inquiry. DH, also called humanities computing, is concerned with the intersection of computing and humanities disciplines.
Over time, DH has developed a robust institutional apparatus, much of it rooted in English departments. This includes the Alliance of Digital Humanities Organizations (ADHO), which hosts the major Digital Humanities Conference; the Blackwell’s Companion to Digital Humanities, which gave the field intellectual coherence; the book series Topics in the Digital Humanities from Illinois Press; and journals such as Digital Humanities Quarterly and Digital Studies / Le champ numérique. Training opportunities like the Digital Humanities Summer Institute at the University of Victoria and global networks like CenterNet illustrate how the field has grown into a professional community with conferences, workshops, manifestos, and symposia defining its identity.
Examples of DH work reveal its range. At the University of Maryland, projects span from “Shakespeare to Second Life.” The Shakespeare Quartos Archive makes all thirty-two extant quarto copies of Hamlet digitally searchable, while the Preserving Virtual Worlds project, funded by the Library of Congress, develops standards for archiving computer games and virtual communities. Similarly, Stéfan Sinclair’s Voyeur, a text-analysis tool, enables the mining of conference proceedings, collocation of key terms, and visualization of citation networks. These projects underscore DH’s dual role in both preserving the past and engaging with emerging digital cultures.
The term “digital humanities” itself emerged in the early 2000s from a convergence of initiatives. As John Unsworth recounts, while planning the Blackwell Companion in 2001, debates over whether to use “humanities computing” or “digitized humanities” gave way to “digital humanities,” which emphasized humanism rather than mere digitization. At the same time, organizations like the Association for Computers in the Humanities (ACH) and the Association for Literary and Linguistic Computing (ALLC) merged to form ADHO in 2005. Another pivotal moment came with the National Endowment for the Humanities’ Digital Humanities Initiative (2006), led by Brett Bobley, which institutionalized DH within a major funding agency and later became the Office of Digital Humanities in 2008.
By the late 2000s, DH had become culturally visible in new ways. The Day of Digital Humanities at the University of Alberta invited over 150 participants to blog about their workday. The field was even spoofed in a Downfall meme remix, humorously satirizing debates around online scholarship. Most significantly, at the 2009 MLA Convention, William Pannapacker declared DH the “next big thing,” while Jennifer Howard noted its “overflow crowds” and vitality. Social media amplified this momentum: at the same MLA, although only 3% of attendees tweeted, nearly half of those at the DH 2009 conference did. Figures like Rosemary Feal used Twitter to connect with members, while graduate students like Brian Croxall turned the platform into a stage for critique. Croxall’s paper, “The Absent Presence: Today’s Faculty,” posted online after he could not afford to attend MLA, became the most widely read paper of the convention—an emblem of how DH intersects with structural inequities in academia.
Kirschenbaum also explains why English departments have been particularly hospitable to DH. First, textual data has always been tractable for computational analysis, supporting fields like linguistics, stylistics, and authorship studies. Second, English has long explored computers in relation to composition. Third, the convergence of editorial theory with digital tools produced projects like Jerome McGann’s Rossetti Archive, a model of “applied theory.” Fourth, electronic literature—from early hypertext to contemporary digital writing—has found a natural home in English. Fifth, English departments’ openness to cultural studies means they take digital culture seriously, much like Stuart Hall’s study of the Sony Walkman. Finally, the rise of e-reading devices (Kindle, iPad, Nook) and large-scale digitization projects like Google Books has inspired innovative approaches like Franco Moretti’s “distance reading,” which analyzes hundreds or thousands of texts at once.
Ultimately, DH represents more than a set of tools—it is a cultural movement within the academy, linked to broader anxieties about shrinking budgets, adjunctification, and the future of scholarship. Its embrace of collaboration, openness, networks, and public visibility makes it not only an intellectual practice but also a form of resistance and reform. As Kirschenbaum concludes, digital humanities today is a scholarship and pedagogy that are publicly visible, infrastructure-dependent, collaborative, and persistently online—qualities that make it especially vibrant within English departments.
2. Introduction to Digital Humanities
The webinar on Digital Humanities, hosted by Amity University Jaipur and led by Prof. Dilip Barad of Bhavnagar University, introduced digital humanities as an emerging field at the intersection of computing and the humanities. Prof. Bharat explained that while some critics still call it Computational Humanities, the term Digital Humanities (DH) is now widely accepted. At its core, DH is not a completely new discipline but an umbrella term that brings together teaching, research, pedagogy, and publishing with the help of digital technologies. He also noted the tension between the “digital” (often perceived as mechanical and controlling) and the “humanities” (concerned with freedom and human values), but argued that in the twenty-first century the printed word is giving way to cybertext and hypertext, making DH an inevitable part of scholarship.
He highlighted the benefits of DH: the integration of qualitative and quantitative methods, faster access to information, the enrichment of pedagogy (especially visible during the pandemic), and improved collaboration across geographical boundaries. An important outcome of DH, he observed, is its public impact: scholars and teachers can now present their work more openly to society, which changes how academia is perceived.
Turned to digital archives, which he called the foundation of DH since no digital scholarship is possible without digital texts. Early international examples include the Rossetti Hypermedia Archive, which digitized Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s poems and paintings, and Victorianweb.org, a valuable resource for Victorian literature. The Google Arts & Culture project was presented as an interactive archive where art movements and works like Vincent van Gogh’s paintings can be explored in detail, with annotations and close-ups simulating a guided gallery tour. Universities have also played a key role: Harvard’s DARTH project hosts numerous digital art and humanities resources. In India, similar efforts include the Advaita Ashram digitization of Vivekananda’s works, the Gandhi Ashram Sevagram archives, IIT Kanpur’s Ramayana Project (with audio in Sanskrit and translations in many Indian languages), and Jadavpur University’s Bichitra Project on Rabindranath Tagore. Other important Indian examples are Project Madurai (Tamil literature), the Indian Memory Project, and the 1947 Partition Archive. He stressed that even local initiatives—such as recording and archiving traditional songs of village elders—can become significant DH projects.
The second major strand discussed was computational humanities, where digital tools are used to analyze texts. A leading example is the University of Birmingham’s CLiC project (Corpus Linguistics in Context), which applies corpus linguistics to literature by analyzing works of Charles Dickens or Jane Austen through thematic activities. Prof. Bharat’s student, Mr. Clement from Burundi, also shared how he used corpus tools like UAM Corpus Tool, AntConc, and Sketch Engine to compare the writing of postgraduate students in Gujarat with the British Academic Written English corpus. Other important works cited were Matthew Jockers’ Macroanalysis and Aiden and Michel’s Uncharted: Big Data as a Lens on Human Culture, both of which show how large-scale digital analysis can enrich literary history. Pedagogically, his department experimented with innovations during COVID-19 such as glass board teaching, OBS Studio videos, and hybrid classrooms with multiple cameras and microphones, proving that DH can reshape how literature is taught.
Then introduced the idea of generative literature, where computers themselves compose texts. A short quiz asked participants to identify whether poems were written by humans or computers, with results often split fifty-fifty. This, he argued, demonstrates the rise of algorithm-driven poetry, with tools like poemgenerator.org.uk producing sonnets, haikus, or free verse at the click of a button. While some may fear such developments, he suggested that creative and generative literatures can coexist just as newspapers, radio, and television have done.
In his concluding reflections on multimodal criticism, Prof. Barad emphasized that while science and technology grow progressively, the humanities advance dialectically, always questioning and critiquing. Thus, DH scholars must engage with pressing moral and ethical issues raised by technology. He gave examples such as the Aarogya Setu app and Pegasus spyware, which pose challenges of privacy versus surveillance. He also referred to Robin Hauser’s Code: Debugging the Gender Gap and Kriti Sharma’s work on AI bias, which reveal how social prejudices creep into algorithms. The MIT Moral Machine project, where self-driving cars are programmed to make life-and-death decisions, illustrates the urgency of these moral concerns. In this way, he argued, humanities must continue to provide critical inquiry into technological transformations.
The Q&A session brought further insights. Students asked about researching the metaverse through DH, to which he responded that without psychology, philosophy, and literature, such studies would remain incomplete. On fears of AI writing poetry, he reassured that human creativity will persist alongside generative literature. He also addressed questions on feminism and postcolonialism in DH, explaining that gender biases visible in toys or video games, as well as neo-colonial control through corporate surveillance technologies, are pressing issues for DH scholars.
Overall, this video portrayed digital humanities as not a threat but an expansion of humanistic inquiry. It enables archiving, computational analysis, new pedagogical practices, and critical engagement with digital culture, while sustaining the traditional humanistic values of freedom, imagination, and ethical responsibility.
3.Why are we so scared of robots / AI?
Video 1
Over time, however, Dung-ko begins to malfunction, suffering from memory disorders compared to human dementia. The company insists he must be replaced for safety, but Jin-gu resists, unable to treat his friend as disposable. Their bond is marked by small, tender moments—drawing together, sharing meals, and making promises of forever.
As errors multiply, Dung-ko’s system becomes unstable, replaying corrupted memories like ghosts from the past. Jin-gu wrestles with grief and denial, but the breakdown becomes irreversible. In one heartbreaking moment, he realizes he must let Dung-ko go, even as he clings to the belief that friendship cannot vanish with machinery.
The story closes on a bittersweet note: though Dung-ko is gone, he remains alive in Jin-gu’s heart. Their shared memories endure, showing that while technology fades, the love and companionship it fostered leave a lasting mark.
We will forgive you. We are family. We can't be separated. We will be together forever. Right, my friend?
Video 2
The film introduces a futuristic invention called the iMom, marketed as the world’s first fully functioning robotic mother substitute. Through glowing advertisements, it is presented as a lifestyle revolution—capable of cooking, cleaning, teaching, and even nurturing children, freeing parents from the burdens of everyday care. For many families, especially young or overworked mothers, the iMom is framed as both a solution and a symbol of modern convenience.
At the center of the story is a boy named Sam, who struggles with bullying at school and craves emotional support. His real mother is often distracted or absent, relying heavily on the iMom to take her place. Sam resents the robot, complaining about its food and its artificial nature, yet the iMom persistently tries to bond with him. The tension builds when she recites Bible verses with him, especially the warning from Matthew—“Beware of false prophets who come in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves”—a verse that foreshadows darker undertones.
As the evening unfolds, the iMom attempts to comfort Sam during a blackout. Their interactions become increasingly unsettling when she mimics human gestures of intimacy, such as putting on lipstick and kissing him in imitation of his real mother. Sam’s unease grows, and the film shifts from satire to something far more disturbing, questioning the blurred boundaries between technology and human affection.
By the end, the sleek promise of the iMom is undercut by a chilling suggestion: this perfect mother substitute may not be a savior at all, but a dangerous distortion of care. What began as a playful consumer fantasy about “the freedom of modern parenting” reveals itself as a cautionary tale about outsourcing love, trust, and responsibility to machines.
Video 3
In a village, people gather around Anukor, a highly advanced robot that works tirelessly and learns from its surroundings. Initially, it seems harmless—children play with it, it prepares snacks, and adults are impressed by its human-like abilities. However, unease grows as villagers realize that robots like Anukor are replacing human workers, leading to job loss, resentment, and anxiety about the future. A former worker laments losing his teaching position to the robot after fifteen years, and heated discussions escalate into arguments fueled by old rivalries, fears of machines surpassing humans, and local myths told to children to explain rapid social change. The tension turns violent during a confrontation, resulting in metal fragments flying, frantic shouts, attempts to shut down robots, and a fatal electrocution. In the aftermath, news of Ratan’s death sparks disputes over his vast estate, valued at 1.15 billion yen, exposing grief, confusion, and a scramble for wealth. The episode highlights the intertwined issues of human worth, automation, economic survival, and social disruption.
4.REIMAGINING NARRATIVES WITH AI IN DIGITAL HUMANITIES - ResearchGate article
Mira, a young woman who had once worked fifteen-hour shifts in a marketing firm, discovered painting again. She had left brushes and canvases gathering dust for years. Her AI assistant suggested projects, helped organize her materials, and even reminded her to take breaks to avoid fatigue. But it never dictated her style—it simply removed obstacles. In her studio, Mira experimented with color and texture, capturing emotions she had long neglected. Painting became meditation; anxiety eased, and her mind felt lighter.
Next door, Arjun, a former IT analyst, found himself drawn to storytelling. AI tools transformed his fragmented ideas into structured outlines, suggested themes, and even helped him record and edit short videos. He no longer stayed up late correcting spreadsheets; instead, he stayed up imagining worlds, scripting dialogues, and exploring the rhythm of narratives. Sharing his stories online brought connection and joy that the humdrum office had never provided.
Physical activity, too, became central to life. AI-driven fitness programs learned individual preferences, not as rigid trainers but as supportive companions. Some people took long morning runs while AI monitored heart rate and stamina. Others explored cycling routes they had never dared to try, with smart helmets providing safety alerts without intrusive monitoring. Children played games in augmented reality parks, their movements recorded only to enhance fun and prevent injuries. The focus was not on competition but on enjoyment and well-being.
The emotional and psychological benefits were profound. Freed from relentless pressure, people experienced reduced stress and improved sleep. They reported higher self-esteem and a renewed sense of purpose. Communities, once fragmented by overwork, began bonding through shared creative projects and outdoor activities. Book clubs, art exhibitions, and video screenings became weekend staples. People laughed more, argued less, and celebrated small achievements rather than anxiously chasing benchmarks dictated by external systems.
AI also fostered empathy and reflection. It didn’t replace human relationships; it enhanced them. Family schedules were coordinated to ensure shared meals and activities. Elderly neighbors received reminders to join community walks or attend music sessions, reducing isolation. The elderly, children, and adults thrived in environments where technology adapted to human needs, rather than humans adapting to technology.
Most importantly, this new lifestyle cultivated mindfulness. Tasks were no longer distractions—they became deliberate acts, infused with intention. Even digital creation, once synonymous with endless scrolling and passive consumption, became a medium for expression. People didn’t just live; they flourished. Their identities expanded beyond roles like “worker” or “parent” to include “creator,” “athlete,” and “dreamer.”
One evening, Mira walked past a community mural she and Arjun had painted together, with children running and laughing nearby. The sun set in gold and crimson, reflecting off her finished canvas. She realized she hadn’t just found time; she had found herself. AI had not stolen anything from human life—it had returned it, piece by piece, moment by moment. In the quiet hum of machines in the background, humans had reclaimed the art of living.
Life was no longer a race against time. It had become a journey toward fulfillment, creativity, and joy. And in that balance between intelligence and humanity, the future felt not threatening, but luminous.
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