The use of computers and other mobile devices has to be so

Host: The evening light slanted through the tall windows of the old classroom, where dust danced lazily in the air, glowing gold in the last rays of sunset. The walls, once painted a lively cream, had faded to a tired beige; the chalkboard, smudged and scarred, still carried faint traces of forgotten equations.

Outside, the faint hum of traffic drifted in from the street. Inside, silence — the kind of silence that holds the ghosts of voices once eager, now replaced by the dull rhythm of screens.

Jack sat at one of the old wooden desks, tapping idly at a tablet, the blue light washing over his face. Jeeny stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the street below, her reflection mingling with the city’s neon outside.

Above the chalkboard, someone had once pinned a printout of a quote — faded, curling at the edges:
“The use of computers and other mobile devices has to be so carefully controlled… it can become a source of total disruption that destroys the co-operative learning experience.” — David Starkey.

Jeeny: “He’s right, you know. Starkey. I used to think technology would save education — open doors, connect minds. But now… I see more faces lit by screens than by curiosity.”

Jack: Without looking up from the tablet. “Curiosity’s just evolved, Jeeny. You call it distraction; I call it adaptation. Kids today learn faster from YouTube than they ever did from chalk and lectures.”

Host: The light flickered, the last sunbeam retreating as shadows deepened across the floor. A faint buzz from the old fluorescent lights mingled with the tap-tap-tap of Jack’s fingers.

Jeeny: “But what do they learn, Jack? They scroll through facts, not knowledge. They consume, but they don’t connect. It’s like giving them a library with no doors — they can see everything, touch nothing.”

Jack: Finally looks up, smirking. “Maybe doors aren’t the point anymore. Maybe the walls are what need breaking. The internet doesn’t wait for permission — it gives you the world instantly. That’s not destruction. That’s democracy.”

Jeeny: “Democracy without discipline is anarchy. Knowledge without reflection becomes noise. You’ve seen the classrooms — half the students lost in screens, half pretending to listen. Tell me that’s learning.”

Jack: “And before screens, half the class was lost in daydreams. The tools changed, not the humans.”

Host: The wind picked up outside, rattling the old windowpanes. The light from Jack’s screen reflected in Jeeny’s eyes, twin glimmers of defiance and disappointment.

Jeeny: “You sound like one of those tech evangelists who think connectivity equals wisdom. But connection without understanding is emptiness. We’ve traded conversation for commentary, collaboration for clicks.”

Jack: “And you sound like one of those nostalgic purists who’d rather freeze time in the name of purity. The world’s moved on, Jeeny. Kids today learn coding before they can spell. They talk to AI before they talk to each other. That’s not regression — it’s evolution.”

Jeeny: Her tone sharpened. “Evolution without empathy isn’t progress, Jack — it’s disconnection. Look around: students sitting side by side, heads bowed, eyes glazed. They don’t share space; they share signals. Even teachers compete with TikTok now.”

Jack: He laughed, a low, weary sound. “Maybe teachers should learn to compete. Adapt, innovate, survive. The classroom isn’t sacred — it’s just another battlefield in the war for attention.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when attention dies? When no one listens long enough to understand anything?”

Jack: “Then maybe the world didn’t deserve understanding to begin with.”

Host: The tension thickened, heavy as chalk dust. The clock ticked — slow, deliberate. The tablet screen dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of twilight through the window.

Jeeny: “You really believe that, don’t you? That efficiency is more valuable than presence.”

Jack: Quietly. “I believe presence doesn’t scale. Not anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s exactly what we’ve lost — the unscalable beauty of being together. Starkey was right. Technology without control doesn’t empower — it consumes. It turns every shared space into a private screen.”

Jack: “But control, Jeeny, that’s the word you’re afraid of. Who decides what’s ‘too much’? Who gets to say when tools become threats? Every generation fears the next. Socrates thought writing would destroy memory. He wasn’t wrong — but we gained civilization.”

Jeeny: “And now we’re losing the civilization we built, one notification at a time.”

Host: The streetlights flickered on outside, casting long bars of light across the desks. Jeeny’s shadow stretched toward Jack, as if the past itself were reaching for the future.

Jeeny: “Education used to be about listening — one mind reaching another through silence, patience, human presence. Now we’re teaching noise. Even ‘Dream School’ tried to use screens to inspire — and it turned into chaos. Technology doesn’t teach cooperation; it teaches competition for attention.”

Jack: Sighing, leaning back. “So what’s your answer? Ban devices? Bring back blackboards? Pretend the world hasn’t changed?”

Jeeny: “No. My answer is balance. Tools need guidance — not worship. A hammer can build a home or break a skull; it depends on the hand that holds it.”

Jack: “And who trains the hand? The teachers? Half of them can’t even manage their email.”

Jeeny: Smiling sadly. “Then we start there. We teach them first. We build human literacy before digital literacy.”

Jack: “Idealism doesn’t reboot systems, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, but it reminds us why we built them.”

Host: A moment of silence lingered. The rain began to fall softly against the windows, the sound steady and cleansing, like punctuation to their words.

Jack stared at his reflection in the darkened screen — a faint outline, fractured by his own digital ghost.

Jack: “You know what scares me? That we’re creating a world where people will remember their devices more vividly than their teachers.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe teachers need to start becoming unforgettable again.”

Jack: Looking at her now, voice quieter. “You still believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Because once we stop believing that people matter more than pixels, it’s over.”

Host: The lights dimmed fully now, leaving only the rainlight glow from outside. Jack stood slowly, walked toward the board, and with one hand, wiped away the last of the chalk — an old equation, half-erased, barely legible.

Jeeny watched him, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when learning felt like discovery? When one question could fill a whole room with wonder?”

Jack: Turning toward her, voice low. “Maybe it still can — if we learn to ask again without expecting Google to answer.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Then maybe that’s our real assignment.”

Host: The rain softened, turning the windows into a veil of silver threads. The two figures stood there — the skeptic and the idealist, the past and the future — both watching the faint reflection of a world flickering between connection and confusion.

And as the sound of the rain faded, David Starkey’s words seemed to echo once more through the quiet hall — not as warning, but as wisdom rediscovered:

“Technology must serve learning, not consume it. For when the screen replaces the spark, the classroom becomes a cage of its own making.”