Schools Need Technology. But They Also Need More Time

 

Schools Need Technology. But They Also Need More Time

Using technology wisely, can give valuable time back.

I have spent most of my working life in education and, when I think back to when I was at school, it is striking how much has changed. That was more than half a century ago, when there were no computers in our classrooms, no smartboards, learning platforms or artificial intelligence. If we wanted to find something out, we looked in a book. If we wanted to speak to a teacher, we waited for the opportunity. But I wouldn't say schools were better or worse then. They were simply different, because the world they were preparing children for was different.

Today's schools are working with children growing up in a world that is changing at an extraordinary speed. Technology, social media and artificial intelligence are transforming the way we live and work, while schools are also supporting children with increasingly diverse needs and placing greater emphasis on wellbeing, safeguarding, inclusion and individual support. Technology therefore has an important place in education, and I believe we should embrace it wholeheartedly . Used well, it can make information more accessible, support assessment and planning, identify patterns in student performance, reduce duplication and give educators tools that were unimaginable when I was starting out in education.

But there is another part of education where technology can assist, while human judgement and relationships remain essential: the human relationship at the heart of education.

A system may tell us that a student's grades have fallen. It may show that attendance has changed or that work is no longer being submitted. Those are valuable pieces of information, but they are only the beginning of the conversation. Why has the student's performance changed? Is the child struggling with confidence? Is learning becoming difficult? Is something happening socially that we don't know about? Is it something to do with the family ?

A good teacher may notice something that never appears on a dashboard — a child who has become unusually quiet, a student who has stopped making eye contact or someone who is suddenly spending more time alone. Sometimes it is simply a teacher's instinct that says, “Something isn't quite right.”

And that is where time becomes so important.

Across our schools, counsellors, special educators, inclusion specialists and teachers are doing an extraordinary amount of work  to support children who need additional help. I have seen the tremendous care, patience and expertise that goes into supporting students who may be struggling with their studies, finding learning difficult, lacking confidence, feeling anxious or simply needing someone to understand them. Here in the UAE, there is a strong commitment to supporting students with different needs, and much of this work happens quietly and without much recognition.

Yet even the most dedicated professionals face a very practical constraint: there are only so many hours in a school day. Sometimes the person supporting a child knows exactly what they would like to do next — another conversation, another strategy, or simply more time to sit and listen. Sometimes, despite everyone's best intentions, there simply isn't enough time.

Perhaps this is where technology can make one of its most valuable contributions. Not by replacing teachers, counsellors, special educators or inclusion specialists, but by reducing some of the routine work around them. If technology can simplify a process, reduce duplication or save a teacher an hour of routine work, perhaps the greatest benefit is not finding another task to fill that hour. Perhaps it is giving some of that time back — to plan, to think, to talk to a child or simply to notice something that might otherwise be missed.

And perhaps there is one question that should sit above every new initiative, every new system and every new piece of technology we introduce into education:

“Will this benefit the child?”

That, ultimately, should be our test. Not whether something is fashionable or technologically impressive, and not simply whether it makes our lives more efficient, but whether, in some meaningful way, it improves the experience, learning, wellbeing or opportunities of the child.

Education is full of competing demands, and most of them exist for very good reasons. Teachers need information, leaders need to understand what is happening in their schools, parents need communication, students need support and schools need to be accountable. Technology can help with many of these things. But we should always remember what all of this is ultimately about: the child.

Children need good teaching, of course, but they also need time to read, to think, to make mistakes, to ask questions, to develop confidence and, occasionally, simply to be bored. Teachers need time too — to prepare properly, to reflect, to talk to colleagues and, perhaps most importantly, to know the children in front of them.

Because some of the most important moments in a school will never appear on a dashboard. They happen when a teacher notices that something is wrong, when a conversation in a corridor gives a child the confidence to keep going, when a student finally finds the courage to put up a hand, or when a child is told at exactly the right moment, “I believe you can do this.”

Technology can help us enormously. It can make education more efficient, more informed and, if used well, more personalized.

 But perhaps its greatest value should not be measured simply by how much more it enables us to do. Perhaps it should also be measured by how much time it gives back to the people who matter most in education — the teachers and the children.

Because in education, time isn't just a resource. It is an opportunity to make a difference.

 

Getting older

 

We Are Getting Older, Yet We Are Nowhere Near Done

Getting older is inevitable. Deciding that life is over is another matter.

I wake up at 4.45 most mornings. I still have to go to work, so I can't claim it is some great exercise in discipline. But I like that time of the morning. The house is quiet, nobody wants anything from me, and my mind seems to work better before the day starts. Quite often, I do some of my best writing then.

I have spent my entire working life in education, surrounded by young people. That probably explains why I have never felt particularly old. When you spend years listening to young people talk about their ambitions, worries, music, technology and plans for the future, you cannot help remaining interested in what is going on around you.

I still work full-time. I go to the gym, travel, write, speak and drive. I love music and podcasts, and enjoy a good humorous TV series or movie. I meet friends, make plans and am working towards publishing my books.

So retirement, it seems, has somehow missed my address.

The grandchildren help too. They keep me connected to a world that changes faster than I can sometimes keep up with. Then there is Chanel, my cat, who has decided that my main responsibilities are feeding her and opening doors. She has never actually said thank you.

And my wife has been putting up with me all these years. I regard that as a considerable achievement. She may not.

I am also completely useless at anything involving carpentry, electrical work or mechanics. I can stand beside someone doing the job and look concerned. I can even offer an opinion. Actually fixing anything is beyond me.

But I have been thinking about something more serious.

When I look at people my age, I see two very different attitudes towards getting older.

Some continue to make plans. They travel, exercise, work, meet friends, read, write, listen to music and remain curious. They may complain about their knees, their backs or the price of everything, but they are still interested in life.

Others seem to have decided that their turn is over.

“It is time for the young now.”

“I've done my bit.”

“There isn't much left.”

I understand that attitude. Getting older brings losses and disappointments. Friends disappear from our lives. Health can become an issue. Some people find themselves lonely. And there are days when getting out of bed feels like a much bigger achievement than it used to.

But I think there is a danger in deciding that the best part of life is behind us.

Once we stop expecting anything from life, we can gradually stop looking for anything. We make fewer plans, go out less and become less curious. The world can slowly become smaller, and with it can come loneliness, frustration and a loss of interest in the things that once gave us pleasure.

I don't judge anyone for that. We all have difficult periods. But I do believe that attitude matters.

I am not a holy Joe. I don't pretend to have all the answers. But I do believe, and I do pray. It helps me look ahead rather than spend too much time looking backwards.

I don't often ask myself, “How old am I?”

The question I find more interesting is, “What do I still want to do?”

And there is quite a list.

There are places I want to visit, books I want to publish, music I want to hear, roads I want to drive, people I want to meet and grandchildren I want to spoil.

Maybe that is all the advice I would offer: keep something ahead of you. It doesn't have to be a world trip or a major achievement. It could be dinner with friends, a book you want to read, a new place you want to see, a morning at the gym or simply a good conversation.

Stay curious. Keep laughing. Keep meeting people. And don't be embarrassed to enjoy yourself.

I have spent a lifetime around young people, and perhaps they have taught me something without ever intending to: being young is not the only way to be enthusiastic about life.

We are getting older. There is no point pretending otherwise. But I still have plenty I want to do, and I see no reason to stop simply because the calendar keeps moving.

Tomorrow morning, I'll probably wake up at 4.45, make my own tea because I am fussy about it, and sit down to write. There will be books to work on, places to visit, music to listen to, people to meet and, somewhere along the way, a grandchild demanding something.

And there will probably be Chanel, sitting by the door, waiting for me to do what she expects me to do.

I suppose growing older is inevitable. Growing bored with life is optional.

We need fewer experts

 https://gulfnews.com/opinion/op-eds/why-we-need-fewer-experts-and-more-wise-people-1.500637153

Our strange security rituals

 Hotels, Malls, Banks — The Great Indian Security Ritual

How often have you walked into a bank and seen an ageing security guard quietly doing his duty? Or stood in a queue outside a mall, waiting to pass through a metal detector? Or driven into a hotel and watched the familiar security routine unfold around your car?

We have all seen it, experienced it and, for the most part, simply accepted it as part of everyday life.

I was recently on holiday in India and found myself wondering whether some of these familiar security rituals have become more about following a routine than actually improving protection.

Let me make one thing clear: this is not a criticism of the security personnel. Most are simply doing what they have been instructed to do. Many work long hours for modest salaries and in difficult conditions. They deserve our respect.

My question is whether the systems behind them are keeping pace with the threats they are supposed to address.

Enter almost any decent hotel with your car and luggage and the routine begins. At the gate, the guard asks you to open the bonnet and the boot — or “dicky”, as we call it in India. He peers inside both, while nobody seems particularly interested in looking inside the car itself.

Then comes the dog, wandering around the vehicle, followed by the familiar small mirror on a long pole, pushed underneath the car.

I am sure these checks have a purpose. But when the same procedure is repeated thousands of times, you cannot help wondering whether it is still effective or simply a ritual everyone has become accustomed to.

The same happens at shopping malls. You queue, reach the metal detector and the scanner beeps. Keys come out, then the phone, then the belt, until eventually you are practically empty-handed.

And I wonder: how many criminals are going to patiently stand in a queue of 40 people waiting for their turn?

To be fair, Indian airport security is a different matter altogether. At least with me, they are extremely stringent. I sometimes wonder whether they have information that I don't have. Perhaps I look dangerous. Or suspicious. Or maybe I simply have an honest face that requires further investigation!

But there is another question that troubles me far more.

What happens if a security guard actually finds something dangerous?

At a hotel or mall, if a scanner indicates something genuinely suspicious, or a guard discovers something concerning, does he know what to do next? Who does he call? Whom does he inform? Does he know how to isolate the area, alert the right people and keep others away?

These are ordinary people trying to earn a living. They may have limited education, long working hours and difficult circumstances. Yet we place them at the front line of our security systems.

Have we given them enough training to deal with the one situation we hope they never encounter?

Then there are banks, where an elderly security guard often sits at the entrance holding a rifle that sometimes looks as though it has been there since the days of fountain pens and handwritten cheques.

Again, I am not making fun of the guard. I am questioning whether the system is giving him the tools, training and support he needs.

Security is important, and the people carrying out these checks are doing a necessary and often thankless job. But systems cannot remain unchanged simply because they have always been followed.

Security procedures need to be reviewed, updated and made more intelligent. A routine that everyone knows and mechanically follows can gradually lose its effectiveness.

The people doing these jobs are clearly trying their best. But is trying your best enough to keep a place secure?

That is the real question.

The system must give them the right training, technology and information, along with a clear understanding of what to do when something genuinely goes wrong.

Because security matters too much to become a ritual.

The people may be doing their best. But is the system doing its best to keep us safe?

The power of quiet confidence

 Have you ever noticed how real strength often shows up quietly?

The Power of Quiet Confidence

Real strength is often quiet. It doesn’t need attention or approval. It comes from knowing yourself and trusting your judgment, even when no one is watching. Like an eagle, it doesn’t announce where it’s going—it just moves, steady and focused.

A lion doesn’t have to prove it’s a lion. It just is—calm, aware, and not easily shaken. It doesn’t act out of insecurity or a need to be seen.

A lot in life works better when kept to yourself at first. Not every plan needs sharing right away. Some things grow better in private, without outside opinions getting in too soon.

When you talk about goals too soon, you open the door to doubt, pressure, and others’ expectations. But when you keep them to yourself, you give them space to develop without interference—like something taking shape before it’s ready to be seen.

Knowing when to speak and when to stay quiet is maturity. It’s about acting with intention instead of reacting emotionally. When you’re clear on your direction, you don’t need constant reassurance.

Even in chess, the best players don’t reveal everything at once. They watch, wait, and move when the timing is right.

Most real progress happens quietly, through consistent effort no one sees at first. In the end, your results matter more than how much you spoke about them.

So move at your own pace. Keep things simple. Trust what you’re building, even if it’s not visible yet. When the time is right, it will speak for itself.

The power of Consistency

 The Power of Consistency

When I look back at my professional journey, I often ask myself what truly contributed to the progress and success I have experienced.

It was not one big achievement, one moment of brilliance, or a sudden breakthrough.

It was consistency.

Over the years, I have come to believe that success is rarely built through dramatic moments. It is built quietly through commitment, discipline, and the willingness to keep doing the right things, day after day, even when there is little recognition.

In leadership, especially, consistency matters. People do not build trust with a single speech, a single decision, or a single success. Trust is earned through the patterns people observe over time.

They notice whether you remain committed during challenges, whether your standards remain high when nobody is watching, and whether your actions match your words.

A consistent person becomes someone others can depend on. And reliability is one of the most valuable qualities in any organisation. People naturally gravitate towards those who bring stability, fairness, and a sense of assurance.

I have seen many talented people with exceptional ideas and great potential. But talent alone is not enough. Without perseverance and the discipline to keep going, potential often remains unfulfilled.

A flash of brilliance may create attention for a moment. Consistent excellence creates respect over a lifetime.

Looking back, I am grateful for the opportunities, mentors, colleagues, and experiences that have shaped my journey. But I also recognise the importance of the simple habits that made the difference — staying curious, remaining committed, learning continuously, and never losing sight of the purpose behind the work.

Success is not built in a single moment of inspiration.

It is built in the thousands of ordinary moments when we choose to show up, contribute, and give our best.

Consistency may be quiet, but its impact is lasting.

The Uber Driver in Zurich

 THE UBER DRIVER IN ZURICH 

Yesterday, something very ordinary happened. Yet I have a feeling I will remember it for a very long time.

We had just come out of a large shopping complex in Zurich. The next task seemed simple enough—get an Uber back to the hotel.

Simple? Not quite.

The place had exits everywhere. Different levels, different directions, signs that seemed to create more confusion than clarity. Finding the right pickup point felt like solving a puzzle without all the pieces.

And before anyone suggests it, no, I am not one of those people who can effortlessly move the pin on a map and place it exactly where the driver should arrive. Maps and I have maintained a respectful distance throughout my life.

I asked a few people for help. Most gave me vague directions with great confidence. There is something refreshing about someone simply saying, "Sorry, I don't know." At least you know where you stand.

Eventually, one gentleman pointed us in the right direction.

Feeling relieved, I turned around and started walking. Unfortunately, solving one problem did not mean I had become more alert. Within seconds, I almost tripped over a low stone bench and banged my shin.

A small reminder that life has a way of keeping us humble.

We stood there, bags in hand, waiting.

I booked the Uber.

Nine minutes.

When I told my wife, she gave me that look. Married couples will understand. The look that says, "After all this effort, this is your plan?"

I was carrying two shopping bags, the afternoon was warm, and I prepared myself for the wait.

Then something unexpected happened.

The nine minutes disappeared.

The screen read:

"Your driver YOHANNES is here."

The car pulled up just a few feet behind me. Two passengers stepped out.

It was my Uber.

For a moment, I simply stood there, slightly stunned.

I cannot explain why, but it felt like one of those quiet moments when life reminds you that sometimes our worries are unnecessary. We do what we can, say a silent prayer, and the answer arrives at exactly the right moment.

We got into the car.

The journey to the hotel was only about fifteen minutes. But Yohannes made those minutes memorable.

From the moment he greeted us, there was a warmth about him. No forced conversation. No artificial friendliness. Just genuine kindness.

He told us he was from Eritrea and had been living in Switzerland for almost twenty years. As we spoke, you could sense the journey behind those years. Here was a man who had worked hard to build a life for his wife and children.

There was no complaining. No bitterness. No desire to impress.

Just quiet dignity.

We spoke about families, countries, travel and life. We exchanged stories, laughed at the similarities between our experiences, and discovered how quickly strangers can connect when they simply take the time to listen.

Before long, it felt less like a passenger and a driver and more like two people who had known each other much longer.

Some people have that rare quality. They make you comfortable almost immediately. They leave you feeling that a simple conversation has somehow become meaningful.

When we reached the hotel, I gave him a tip with the small change I had in my pocket. It was not much, but it came with genuine gratitude.

Then I surprised myself.

I asked him if we could take a photograph together.

I have never done that with an Uber driver before.

We shook hands, exchanged blessings and thanks, smiled for the picture, and then he drove away.

The chances are that I will never see Yohannes again.

Yet I woke briefly during the night and found myself thinking about him.

He was also the first person who came to mind this morning.

Strange, isn't it?

Some people are part of our lives for years and leave little impression.

Others enter our story for just fifteen minutes and somehow leave a lasting mark.

Perhaps that is one of life's quiet lessons.

Every person we meet is carrying a story we know nothing about. Behind every job, every smile, every journey, there is a life filled with hopes, struggles, sacrifices and dreams.

In our busy lives, we often rush past people without ever knowing their story.

Sometimes, if we slow down long enough, we are given a glimpse.

Yesterday I booked an Uber.

What I remember today is not the ride or the destination.

I remember a man named Yohannes from Eritrea, a simple conversation, and a reminder that the most meaningful connections often come when we least expect them.

Some people leave a mark you cannot explain .