By Catherine L’Ecuyer, author of It looks better in 3D, initially published in La Razón, in Spain
The question is not whether tablets should be removed from the classroom. The true question is: why were tablets ever introduced into schools without thorough, public debate? Assuming, as we ought, that education is a noble and rigorous endeavour, where methods must rest on evidence rather than whim, the burden of proof on the industry eager to market such devices in the classroom should have been twofold: First, to demonstrate that tablets offer clear, measurable educational advantages beyond those of paper; second, to ensure they bring no harm. This double burden was never met—neither before their introduction, nor a decade after. So why, then, were tablets allowed into our classrooms at all?
To understand what truly happened, we must first revisit the pedagogical climate at the time when technological “(Ed) Tech solutions” began to take hold in education. In the second decade of the 21st century, we found ourselves amid a deep disillusionment with a model grown tired: educational mechanicism. This model stood upon four worn pillars—mechanical repetition, meaningless memorisation, a blind reverence for hierarchy (“it is true because I say so”) and the behavioral system of rewards and punishments (“spare the rod, spoil the child”). There was a growing discontent, a quiet rebellion against the cold rationality and passive nature of traditional instruction. Education, many felt, had lost the child—the true subject of learning.
Sensing this cultural shift, schools began to discard mechanistic practices and embrace progressive educational methods: Flipped-Classroom, Project-based learning, a focus on skills instead of on knowledge, and the famed “learning by doing.” Yet in their eagerness to adopt these methods, few paused to examine the philosophical soil in which they were rooted—namely, the romantic-idealist tradition. It was at this very crossroads that technology and progressive pedagogy struck a marriage of convenience and gave birth to the (Ed)Tech industry. But why this union? What did each stand to gain, and how did it serve to usher tablets into our schools?
The groom—technology—longed for a pedagogical suit. It needed content, and the semblance of educational wisdom, neither of which it possessed. On the other hand, the bride—the progressive education—longed for a cloak of dignity. Inspired by Rousseau, the romantic-idealist pedagogy had spent over a century reinventing itself by scorning anything deemed “old.” What better match, then, than a partner offering the glamour of progress and modernity?
And so, new education proclaimed that the learner constructs knowledge based on their own representation of reality. Objective reality no longer existed. No more measuring sticks. No more direct instruction. No more transmission of knowledge, culture and tradition.
The child, it was said, must “learn to learn”. But a child who knows nothing cannot know what they do not know. And if they do not know it, how can they know what they need to learn? If they cannot grasp the gap, how can they bridge it? In the romantic-idealist vision, knowledge lies dormant within the child like a seed, blossoming from within. Education is Froebel’s kindergarten. If knowledge springs from one’s own personal representation, what better tool to aid this than the boundless sea of the internet? “Everything is online.” Eureka! The internet—a vast ocean of decontextualised information—becomes the ideal playground for constructivist minds. And tablets, their chosen vessel. The paradox, of course, is this: The mind most capable of navigating the digital expanse is the one educated in the analogue world. A prepared mind recognises treasure when it sees it, knows what it seeks and where to find it, and can discern the true from the false. But the unformed mind, lacking prior knowledge, is tossed by the currents—led not toward understanding, but toward distraction, its attention sold to the highest bidder. What was meant to awaken the child, to empower the student to awaken agency, ends up lulling them into passivity. The digital world, for them, becomes not a tool of empowerment, but a trap.
They cut and paste without discernment, without the inner compass needed to navigate truth.
And thus, progressive education—once characterized by its vows of poverty and mistrust of capitalist excess—found itself in a marriage of interest with one of the wealthiest and most powerful suitors of our time. In return for a borrowed cloak of dignity, one more decade of borrowed glory, she sacrificed her children on the altar of progress and modernity. The good news is this: marriages of convenience never last forever. They endure only as long as mutual interests align. The union will dissolve the moment we strip one of its dignity, or the other of its sheen. And may we, when that time comes, vow never again to let those driven by economic gain cross the sacred threshold of the classroom.
