Interpreting the Past: Are We Listening, or Projecting?
By Anela Abdel-Rahman, PsyD
Egyptologist, Native Hawaiian Cultural Practitioner
(Known in the SCA as: Talia bint al-Athir, OP- Kingdom of An Tir)
I. Introduction
When studying the past—whether through academic research, historical reenactment, or building a persona for an event like those in the Society for Creative Anachronism—how we interpret historical sources matters just as much as what we find in them. Sources don’t always speak clearly across centuries, and the tools we use to understand them can shape our conclusions in profound ways.
Two approaches often come into play: exegesis (ˈek-sə-ˌjē-səs) and eisegesis (ˌī-sə-ˈjē-səs). Exegesis draws meaning from a source, grounded in its original cultural, historical, and linguistic context. It asks: What did this mean to the people who created or used it? Eisegesis, by contrast, projects our own assumptions, values, or desires onto the source—often unconsciously.
This is a topic that sits at the heart of my work as both a psychologist and Egyptologist, where my research focuses on how ancient people understood the world around them—emotionally, spiritually, and socially. The more I study these perspectives, the more I recognize how difficult it is to keep my own framework from slipping into the gaps. Like many researchers and reenactors, I struggle at times to resist shaping the past in my own image—especially when the sources are incomplete or ambiguous. That challenge is part of what prompted me to write this piece.
Examples from ancient Egypt will appear throughout—not because it’s the only relevant culture, but because it clearly illustrates how meaning can shift when viewed through modern eyes. The goal is to share a framework that applies broadly, whether someone is studying 13th-century Japan, pre-contact Mesoamerica, Tudor England, or early Islamic Spain.
Exegesis isn’t about perfection—it’s about thoughtful practice. Bringing awareness of how we read the past helps us ask better questions, recognize our biases, and do justice to the lives and legacies of the people we’re trying to understand.
II. Definitions and Origins
The terms exegesis and eisegesis come from the world of biblical studies, but the concepts have a much wider relevance—especially for anyone working with historical texts, artifacts, or cultural materials. Both words are Greek in origin: exēgeisthai means “to lead out,” while eisēgeisthai means “to lead into.” In short, exegesis is the practice of leading meaning out of a source, while eisegesis involves inserting meaning into it.
Exegesis asks: What did this mean at the time, in its own context? It’s about stepping back and allowing the evidence to speak for itself—even when what it says doesn’t match modern expectations or ideals. Eisegesis, by contrast, tends to confirm what we already think or want to believe. It overlays a modern lens, often unintentionally, and fills in historical gaps with ideas drawn from the present.
In their foundational text on historical methods, Martha Howell and Walter Prevenier describe this tension as one between respecting the strangeness of the past and the temptation to make it familiar. They write: “The past must be made intelligible, but never so much so that it becomes indistinguishable from the present.”¹
This is especially important when studying cultures far removed from us in time, geography, or worldview. Ancient Egyptian texts, for instance, often blend myth, theology, and political ideology in ways that can be hard to parse from a modern perspective. If we approach them exegetically, we ask what these texts meant to the Egyptians themselves—what a divine kingship meant in the 18th Dynasty, or how ordinary people related to household gods or funerary spells. If we approach them eisegetically, we might read them like poetry or fiction, or assume pharaohs were political rulers in the modern sense, disconnected from religious roles.²
While complete neutrality is impossible, exegesis helps us become more aware of our interpretive choices. It invites us to slow down, ask better questions, and hold space for ambiguity rather than rushing to easy conclusions. That’s true whether we’re analyzing a stela from Saqqara or designing a persona based on a Tang Dynasty merchant. The tools are the same—even if the materials change.
III. Exegesis: Letting the Sources Speak
Exegesis is, at its heart, an act of restraint. It means resisting the urge to immediately make sense of something in modern terms and instead asking, What did this mean to the people who made it? It’s about drawing meaning out of the source on its own terms, within its historical, social, linguistic, and material context.
This can be especially challenging when working with sources that are fragmentary, translated, or culturally distant. But it’s also where some of the most rewarding insights come from. Rather than flattening the past to fit modern categories, exegesis helps us appreciate its complexity.
In practice, this approach might involve comparing multiple primary sources, reading scholarly commentary, or looking at how a particular object or idea functioned in the society that produced it. For example, when analyzing a Middle Kingdom tomb inscription from ancient Egypt, an exegetical approach would consider not only the literal translation of the hieroglyphs but also the genre of the text, the tomb owner’s social status, religious worldview, and regional variations in mortuary practice.³ What might seem like a simple list of titles or offerings may turn out to be carefully crafted signals of virtue, authority, and divine favor—elements that made sense to a specific community in a specific time and place.
In more familiar contexts—say, medieval Europe—exegesis might mean looking at a garment not just as “a dress” but as part of a sumptuary system that encoded class, gender, and even religious boundaries. A silk sleeve might carry meaning far beyond its material value, depending on who wore it and when.
What unites these examples is a willingness to dig deeper: to treat sources as products of their own world, not ours. Exegesis doesn’t guarantee perfect accuracy (nothing does), but it gives us a more responsible starting point. It encourages curiosity, humility, and patience—qualities that serve well whether you’re writing a research paper, creating an SCA persona, or trying to understand the worldview of a 15th-century West African griot.
It also reminds us that we don’t need to fully relate to a historical figure in order to understand them. Sometimes the best way to respect the past is to let it be different.
IV. Eisegesis: Projecting Our Own Ideas
Eisegesis happens when we read our own beliefs, values, or assumptions into historical material—consciously or not. It can be tempting, especially when the past is silent in places we wish it would speak. But when we start filling in those gaps with ourselves, the result can be a version of history that reflects our worldview more than it does the people we’re trying to understand.
This can take many forms. Sometimes it’s as obvious as imagining ancient societies as modern ones in costume. Other times, it’s subtler: interpreting an artifact through today’s moral lens, assuming historical figures shared our sense of individuality, or attributing modern ideas about romance, identity, or self-expression to people who had very different frameworks.
Ancient Egypt is especially vulnerable to this kind of projection. For example, some older translations of texts describe female rulers like Hatshepsut or Cleopatra as “usurpers” or portray them as seductive anomalies, reflecting more about Victorian anxieties than ancient Egyptian norms.⁴ In reality, Egyptian kingship—while male-coded in iconography—had room for complexity.Women could and did rule, and the language used to describe them typically emphasized their right to rule through divine association, rather than dwelling on their identity as women.⁵ Reading these figures through a modern feminist lens or a Victorian colonial one are both forms of eisegesis, just heading in different directions.
The same risk applies when working with any historical culture. A Mongol military leader isn’t a modern general. A 10th-century Islamic scholar isn’t a secular academic. A Yoruba priestess isn’t simply a “healer” or “artist” in modern Western terms. When we flatten historical lives to make them more familiar or more palatable, we erase important truths.
Eisegesis isn’t always intentional—and it isn’t always wrong to interpret. Interpretation is necessary. The problem is when that interpretation replaces what’s in the source entirely.
The good news is that eisegesis can be identified and managed. Some helpful questions to ask might include:
- What assumptions am I bringing into this source?
- Who created it, and why?
- Has it been translated or interpreted through a modern lens?
- What other voices or perspectives could help me see it more clearly?
Naming eisegesis when it happens—especially in our own thinking—isn’t about gatekeeping. It’s about accountability. It gives us the tools to revisit sources with clearer eyes and, ideally, to build representations that are more grounded, respectful, and informed.
V. Application to SCA Persona Research
In the SCA and other reenactment communities, persona development is often where research becomes personal. People choose a culture, time period, or identity that fascinates them—and then start building a story. That story, ideally, is shaped by what the historical record can support. But because we’re working with incomplete evidence and lived experiences, there’s always a balance between informed interpretation and imaginative projection.
This is exactly where the line between exegesis and eisegesis becomes critical. An exegetical approach means asking: What do I know about this person’s world from reliable sources, and what does that tell me about how they lived, dressed, thought, or moved through their society? An eisegetical approach, even unintentionally, might look more like: What would I want to do in that role? What traits do I admire and want to embody in this historical shell?
For example, someone creating a persona from 18th Dynasty Egypt might look to grave goods, wall paintings, and administrative records to understand what someone of their chosen class and gender might have worn or done day to day. An exegetical approach would consider textile types, dye costs, religious customs, and roles within temple or household structures.⁶ An eisegetical approach might jump straight to “I like linen because it’s breathable,” or imagine themselves as a priestess or artisan without first confirming if that would have been feasible or likely within their chosen time, place, and status.
This isn’t to say imagination has no place—far from it. In many cases, we have to fill gaps. The historical record is uneven, and the further we move from literate elites or well-studied regions, the less we have to work with. But when we fill in those blanks, it’s worth asking how we do it—and why. Are our choices grounded in plausible evidence, or in modern aesthetics, pop culture, or wish fulfillment?
Being transparent about what’s supported and what’s speculative isn’t about limiting creativity. It’s about modeling good practice. In documentation for Arts & Sciences competitions, teaching moments, or personal projects, it’s helpful to flag where your interpretation begins—especially if your persona is from a marginalized or underrepresented culture. That clarity helps others learn from your work and gives credit to the historical voices we’re all trying to hear more clearly.
Exegesis in persona development doesn’t mean being perfect or exhaustive. It just means being thoughtful, honest, and humble in how we reconstruct the past. It honors the complexity of other cultures and resists the urge to make every story about us.
VI. Navigating Ambiguity and Gaps in the Record
One of the most difficult challenges in historical research—especially for reenactors and independent scholars—is learning to live with ambiguity. The further back in time you go, the fewer complete answers you’re likely to find. Some cultures left behind monumental texts, while others were documented only through the eyes of outsiders. Some artifacts survive but without explanation. Some customs were never written down at all.
And yet, these silences are not a blank check for making things up. They’re an invitation to be thoughtful about how we interpret and reconstruct.
In these moments, exegesis doesn’t mean refusing to speculate. It means making our speculations responsible, grounded, and clear about where the evidence stops. Sometimes that looks like framing a choice with conditional language: “Based on regional textile finds and tomb paintings from this period, it’s plausible that…” Or, “There’s no direct evidence of this exact combination, but the elements are individually attested in nearby contexts.”
Ancient Egypt offers plenty of examples. While we have relatively strong evidence for elite dress in the New Kingdom, depictions of working-class or rural clothing are sparse.⁷ A reenactor developing a non-elite persona can’t rely solely on temple art or tomb scenes, which focus heavily on ritual, idealized, or courtly imagery. Instead, they might draw from textile archaeology, figurines, or regional comparisons—while clearly noting the limitations of what is known.
This approach also matters for cultures where colonialism, war, or institutional neglect have shaped what survives. Indigenous histories, oral traditions, and non-Western ways of understanding the world are often underrepresented in the historical record—not because they were less valuable, but because they were deliberately excluded, erased, or dismissed by past scholars⁸ When working with these traditions, a careful, exegesis-informed approach helps avoid the common trap of “filling in the blanks” with familiar tropes or media stereotypes.
Being transparent about gaps isn’t a weakness. It shows integrity and helps others build on your work. It also models something important for newer researchers and SCA members: that you don’t have to have every answer to make a valuable contribution. You just need to ask good questions—and be honest about what the sources can and can’t tell us.
VII. The Role of Translation and Language Bias
Most of us don’t have direct access to primary sources in their original languages, which means we often rely on translations—sometimes of translations of translations. And every translation is an interpretation.
Language is never neutral. Word choices reflect not just grammar and vocabulary, but cultural values, scholarly assumptions, and even the time and place of the translator. In ancient Egyptian studies, for example, early Egyptologists working in the 19th and early 20th centuries often brought Victorian morality and colonial hierarchies into their work, whether they realized it or not. Terms like “concubine,” “tyrant,” or “idol” appeared in translations where the original hieroglyphs were more neutral, technical, or context-specific.⁹
This isn’t just a problem of the past. Even today, translations may obscure nuance. For instance, the ancient Egyptian word maat—often translated as “truth” or “order”—also encompasses concepts of justice, balance, and cosmic harmony that don’t map neatly onto modern English.¹⁰ Interpreting it only as “law” or “justice” risks narrowing its meaning and misrepresenting its role in Egyptian society.
The same issue crops up in translations of medieval Arabic texts, Classical Chinese poetry, or Nahuatl legal records. The further a translator’s worldview is from the original culture, the more they may unintentionally shape how we see the source.
That’s why exegetical research involves more than just reading a single translation. Whenever possible, compare multiple versions, look for commentary by scholars fluent in the original language, and be aware of when a term might carry modern baggage. It’s also helpful to read about the translators themselves—their time period, training, and institutional context can offer insight into their choices.
Where language meets culture, nuance matters. Getting closer to the original intent helps us avoid eisegesis disguised as “just the text.”
VIII. Intersectionality and Interpretation
When interpreting historical sources, it’s not just the individual elements—like gender, class, or ethnicity—that shape the context. It’s how they intersect. A single historical figure may have navigated the world very differently based on how their identity was constructed across multiple social categories. That’s the essence of intersectionality, a term coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw to describe how overlapping systems of power and identity can produce distinct experiences of oppression, privilege, or social mobility.¹¹
Applying this lens to historical research and reenactment helps us ask better, more specific questions. Instead of asking what “women” did in a particular culture, we might ask what elite women, enslaved women, priestesses, traders’ wives, or widows with property did—and how their experiences differed. Instead of imagining “commoners” as a monolith, we might explore how their lives varied based on region, labor status, ethnicity, or religious role.
Ancient Egypt again offers a useful case in point. Temple inscriptions and tomb art often depict elite men in highly idealized forms—cultivated, powerful, close to the gods. But what about Nubian mercenaries in the army, or female weavers in provincial estates? Their lives were shaped not only by class and gender but also by ethnicity, geography, and the complex social hierarchies of empire.¹² If we view Egyptian society only through the lens of the elite, we risk reproducing the biases of the ancient sources themselves—and reinforcing modern assumptions about who matters in history.
Intersectionality also reminds us that modern reenactors bring their own identities into the research process. A person’s lived experience—whether as Indigenous, queer, disabled, neurodivergent, or otherwise—can influence which stories feel resonant, which sources feel accessible, and which portrayals feel empowering. That’s not inherently a problem; in fact, it can offer meaningful insight. The key is recognizing when that influence enhances interpretation—and when it risks distorting it.
Bringing an intersectional lens to exegesis doesn’t mean overcomplicating things for the sake of theory. It means honoring the full range of human experience in the past, not just the parts that survived in stone or ink. It opens the door to more inclusive and accurate histories—and to more respectful reenactments of those histories today.
IX. Tools and Practices for Better Interpretation
Practicing exegesis and avoiding eisegesis isn’t just about mindset—it’s also about building habits and using the right tools. Whether someone is new to historical research or has spent years refining a persona, there are concrete ways to engage sources more responsibly and effectively.
1. Work with primary sources whenever possible.
This might mean translated texts, archaeological reports, legal codes, inscriptions, or surviving artifacts. If you’re researching a specific historical period or role, look for sourcebooks, museum archives, or curated databases that compile material culture and primary documents. For ancient Egypt, this could include stelae, letters, offering formulas, or lists of provisions found in tombs.¹³
2. Use peer-reviewed, recent scholarship.
The field of historical studies is constantly evolving. Interpretations from even twenty or thirty years ago may now be considered outdated—especially when influenced by colonial, orientalist, or Eurocentric frameworks. Try to prioritize academic books and articles from university presses or journals, and seek out authors from within the culture being studied when possible.
3. Compare sources across genres.
A legal text might describe how society was supposed to function; a personal letter might show how it actually did. Artistic depictions, grave goods, and administrative records often reflect different audiences and purposes. Comparing these helps triangulate a more accurate picture.
4. Research the translators and editors.
Whenever using a translated source, look into who translated it, when, and for what purpose. Understanding the background of a translation can reveal hidden biases or help explain unusual word choices. Some translations were produced for colonial museums, others for Christian seminaries, and others still for political or ideological reasons.
5. Keep a “source journal” or citation log.
Documenting where your interpretations come from helps with transparency—and it also saves time when you need to revisit or share your work. If you’re creating an SCA persona or project, this log can be part of your documentation or teaching material.
6. Use conditional language when appropriate.
It’s okay to fill in gaps—as long as it’s done carefully. Phrases like “may have,” “is consistent with,” “plausibly suggests,” or “based on available evidence” show that you’re interpreting with care, not asserting certainty where none exists.
7. Ask for peer review.
Sharing your research with others—especially those with different cultural or academic backgrounds—can reveal assumptions you didn’t realize you were making. In the SCA, this might mean asking someone outside your kingdom or area of focus to look over your persona story or class notes.
Building these habits over time helps shift the research process from something extractive to something collaborative—between you, the sources, and the people you’re striving to understand.
X. Conclusion
Understanding the difference between exegesis and eisegesis isn’t just academic—it’s essential for anyone trying to study, portray, or teach about the past with integrity. Whether you’re digging into archival material for a research project, building an SCA persona, or interpreting a set of artifacts for a public demo, the way you approach your sources shapes everything that follows.
Exegesis challenges us to step outside our own assumptions. It reminds us that the past wasn’t a mirror of the present—it was its own world, with its own meanings, rhythms, and contradictions. Eisegesis, meanwhile, is always waiting in the wings: that quiet pull toward comfort, familiarity, or the stories we want to tell.
There’s no shame in realizing we’ve fallen into eisegetical habits—it happens to everyone. What matters is learning to recognize it, take a step back, and ask better questions. What do the sources actually say? Whose voices are missing, and why? How can I tell this story in a way that respects the people who lived it?
When we get this right—or at least closer to right—we create space for richer, more inclusive histories. We also make our reenactments, classes, and projects stronger, not weaker. Exegesis doesn’t limit creativity; it grounds it in something real. It offers us a deeper connection to the past and a more honest way of sharing it with others.
And for those of us working with histories that have been misunderstood, overlooked, or deliberately erased—especially cultures of color—this kind of care isn’t optional. It’s part of the responsibility we take on when we choose to represent a world that isn’t our own.
Endnotes
- Martha Howell and Walter Prevenier, From Reliable Sources: An Introduction to Historical Methods (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001), 68.
- Jan Assmann, The Mind of Egypt: History and Meaning in the Time of the Pharaohs, trans. Andrew Jenkins (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 6–12.
- Harco Willems, “The Common People in the Middle Kingdom: A Study of the Evolution of ‘Democratization of the Afterlife,’” in The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt (2000–1700 BCE), ed. Gianluca Miniaci and Wolfram Grajetzki (London: Golden House Publications, 2015), 303–332.
- Christina Riggs, Unwrapping Ancient Egypt (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2014), 6–10.
- Kara Cooney, When Women Ruled the World: Six Queens of Egypt (Washington, D.C.: National Geographic, 2018), 22–27.
- Gillian Vogelsang-Eastwood, Pharaonic Egyptian Clothing (Leiden: STIDOC, 1993), 15–35.
- Renée Friedman, “Village Life in Pharaonic Egypt,” in The Egyptian World, ed. Toby Wilkinson (London: Routledge, 2007), 474–489.
- Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995), 26–37.
- Donald Malcolm Reid, Whose Pharaohs?: Archaeology, Museums, and Egyptian National Identity from Napoleon to World War I (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 41–52.
- Jan Assmann, Ma’at: Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1990), 17–25.
- Kimberlé Crenshaw, “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color,” Stanford Law Review 43, no. 6 (1991): 1241–1299.
- Stuart Tyson Smith, “Askut in Nubia: The Economics and Ideology of Egyptian Imperialism in the Second Millennium B.C.,” KMT: A Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt 7, no. 3 (1996): 25–36.
- Kathryn A. Bard, ed., Encyclopedia of the Archaeology of Ancient Egypt (London: Routledge, 1999), 67–71, 201–206.
- Lila Abu-Lughod, “Writing Against Culture,” in Recapturing Anthropology: Working in the Present, ed. Richard G. Fox (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 1991), 137–162.