Sweden is gearing up to impose a nationwide mobile phone ban in schools and after-school clubs starting autumn 2026. Children aged 7 to 16 will have their phones collected at the start of the day and held until school ends. The measure is part of a broader reform package: Sweden also plans to change the curriculum, grading systems, and teacher training.
The government says this is the biggest education reform in over 30 years, coupled with major budget investments (whaaaat? not budget cuts???). Their argument: current phone usage undermines learning environments, concentration, and overall study conditions.
It’s refreshing to see a government drilling into the nitty-gritty of its education system. Not just policy-level slogans (and budget cuts), but specifics: phones, but also what is taught, how teachers are evaluated, how students are assessed.
If one accepts that smartphones and social media are harmful, e.g. distractions, mental health risks, fostering comparison, etc., then maybe incremental bans like this are just a first step. Why stop there? Could we imagine a policy where owning or operating a smartphone (or using social media) requires a licence, much like for driving or buying certain regulated items? Would that make sense, or is it overreach?
On one hand, licensing would force society to take responsibility: what training do people get about digital literacy, mental health, privacy, social media harms? On the other hand, it raises questions: who grants the licences, what criteria, how enforceable? Would it stifle freedom or exacerbate inequalities (if some can’t afford the “licence” or meet requirements)?
Still, Sweden’s government is at least showing willingness to imagine what school can look like without omnipresent screens—not just tinkering around the edges. That kind of seriousness is rare, and whether you agree or not, it’s compelling to see.
As IB Diploma Programme teachers, we are committed to encouraging students to think critically, question assumptions, and use accurate language. One term we need to handle with particular care is “race.” While the word is common in everyday conversation, it is not a scientific concept—and in academic contexts it can reinforce misconceptions rather than deepen understanding.
Why “race” is unscientific
Modern genetics has shown that humans are remarkably similar at the DNA level. Around 99.9% of our genome is shared across the species, and the small variations that do exist do not line up neatly with the socially constructed categories we call “races.” For example, two individuals from different regions of Africa may be more genetically different from each other than either is from someone in Europe or Asia.
What we call “race” is therefore not a biological fact but a social construct—a way that societies have historically divided people based on superficial traits such as skin colour, hair texture, or facial features. These traits are shaped by environmental adaptation and a handful of genes, not by deep divisions in the human genome. Moreover, ideas of “race” shift depending on place and time: in the United States, Irish and Italian immigrants were once considered non-White; in Brazil, dozens of categories exist based on skin shade; in other contexts, different boundaries are drawn. This fluidity underscores its lack of scientific grounding.
The risks of using “race” in class
If we use the term uncritically in our teaching, we risk reinforcing the false impression that humanity is divided into fixed biological groups. Historically, such thinking has been used to justify slavery, colonialism, and eugenics. For students learning to question and evaluate knowledge, this would be a serious step backwards.
What to use instead
As IB teachers, we can model more precise and meaningful language. When discussing human variation, identity, or population differences, consider terms such as:
Cultural or linguistic groups (e.g., Spanish-speaking communities, Francophone West Africa)
In the sciences, the word “population” is widely preferred. For example, biologists may refer to “populations of West African ancestry” or “South Asian populations” when describing genetic studies. These terms avoid the pseudo-biological weight of “race” while allowing for accurate discussion of human diversity.
A classroom example (Psychology)
In IB Psychology, students often study cultural influences on behaviour and cognition. A student might write: “This study compared memory in two different races.”
As teachers, we can guide them to phrase it more accurately: “This study compared memory in participants from collectivist East Asian cultures and individualist Western cultures.”
This not only avoids the misleading term “race” but also draws students’ attention to the real variable being studied—cultural dimension and context. It also reinforces the IB aim of encouraging critical thinking about research design and interpretation.
Our responsibility
The IB emphasises international-mindedness, respect, and critical thinking. Avoiding the term “race” is part of that responsibility. Instead, we should help students appreciate the complexity of human diversity and recognise that identities are multiple, overlapping, and dynamic. By choosing our words carefully, we not only uphold scientific accuracy but also encourage our students to think in ways that are more inclusive, respectful, and intellectually rigorous.
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If there is one debate that overshadows every other in education, it is the question of respect for teachers. Once regarded as pillars of the community, teachers today often find themselves dismissed, distrusted, and demoralised. And let’s be honest: some of this is unfair, but some of it is self-inflicted.
Start with the basics: salaries. In real terms, teacher pay has fallen across the last two or three decades. The result? The brightest graduates and postgraduates—people who might once have seen teaching as a noble calling—simply aren’t interested in a profession that pays badly and offers little prestige. Add chronic underfunding, and you have classrooms where teachers don’t even have the materials to deliver great lessons. Whiteboards without pens, computers that don’t work, books ten years out of date—this is not how you build a high-performing system.
Meanwhile, technology companies are quietly infiltrating schools, selling flashy gadgets and software that rarely improve learning but always increase costs and workload. Teachers now spend more time wrestling with broken logins and buggy “learning platforms” than actually teaching. Far from empowering teachers, ed-tech often undermines them.
And then there is the government obsession with evidence. Teachers are now buried in paperwork, forced to churn out endless “data” to prove they are doing their jobs. It’s not about trust, it’s about surveillance. Add to that the curse of performance-related pay, which rewards teachers for lessons that “sparkle” in front of an observer but may do little to embed long-term understanding. Style over substance, performance over pedagogy.
The leadership problem is just as corrosive. Too many school management roles are being filled by people who can’t or don’t want to teach. These careerists treat classrooms as a stepping stone to an office job, where they issue diktats from on high without ever demonstrating mastery of teaching themselves. Respect cannot survive when leadership is divorced from practice.
And let’s be blunt: teachers themselves sometimes undermine their own professional standing. When staff rooms turn into political soapboxes, when activism takes priority over instruction, public trust erodes. If teachers want to be treated like professionals, they need to behave like professionals—mastering their craft, focusing on students, and leaving personal agendas at the door.
Respect for teachers has been lost through low pay, poor resources, political meddling, and self-inflicted wounds. If it is ever to be restored, both systems and individuals must change. Pay teachers properly. Fund schools adequately. Cut the gimmicks. Demand professionalism. Only then will teaching recover the authority and honour it once deserved.
Schools love a fad. Every decade or so, a new “miracle cure” for student stress, distraction, and bad behaviour sweeps through classrooms. Right now, that fad is mindfulness. Teachers dim the lights, tell kids to breathe deeply, and pretend that ten minutes of pseudo-meditation will fix everything from exam anxiety to playground bullying. Let’s be blunt: it won’t.
Mindfulness.
The problem starts with the fact that no one can even agree on what mindfulness is. Is it meditation? Is it breathing? Is it yoga? Is it colouring in? The definition is about as slippery as “healthy eating” at a fast-food outlet. If researchers can’t pin it down, what exactly are schools teaching? Unsurprisingly, the evidence base is a mess. Studies are tiny, short-term, biased, and riddled with inconsistent outcomes. Meta-analyses say the same thing over and over: low-quality evidence, weak effects, nothing to get excited about.
Worse still, the way schools actually deliver mindfulness is a joke. Teachers aren’t trained psychologists or Buddhist monks; they’re just told to lead kids in a “calm breathing moment.” For some students—especially those with trauma—this isn’t relaxing at all; it’s disturbing. And while everyone is busy pretending to be Zen, valuable teaching time evaporates.
Here’s a radical thought: instead of wasting time on pseudoscientific fluff, let’s give students something that actually builds brains and resilience. I’m talking about 10–15 minutes of fast mental arithmetic at the start of every school day, for every student, at every level.
This isn’t about turning kids into human calculators. Rapid-fire arithmetic sharpens working memory, strengthens focus, and trains the brain to think clearly under pressure. These skills don’t vanish when the session ends. They seep into everyday life: deciding quickly in a shop, managing time on the fly, weighing risks before acting, resisting impulsive choices. In other words, the very skills that mindfulness claims to improve—but backed by decades of hard cognitive science, not vague spiritual waffle.
And unlike mindfulness, which is passive and often exclusionary, arithmetic is active, universal, and measurable. Students can feel themselves getting quicker, sharper, more confident. That’s real progress—not just sitting cross-legged with eyes shut, pretending to be calm while silently worrying about their maths test.
Mindfulness in schools is just the latest shiny fad, long on hype and short on evidence. Arithmetic is timeless, effective, and transferable. If schools are serious about giving students stronger minds, it’s time to dump the pseudo-meditation and get back to the numbers.
South Korea has taken a bold step by banning the use of mobile phones and smart devices during class hours. Beginning in March 2026, students will no longer be allowed to scroll, swipe, or stream in school. It’s a move that many argue is long overdue—and one that should spark a wider global conversation: should children under 16 even have access to smartphones and social media in the first place?
Hello? Is there anyone there?
The evidence is overwhelming. Smartphone overuse is damaging young people’s ability to focus, build real friendships, and even regulate their emotions. Studies cited by South Korean lawmakers show clear links between phone addiction and stunted brain development. Parents report their children losing sleep, neglecting studies, and falling victim to online bullying. Teachers, meanwhile, say classrooms are increasingly disrupted by students unable to detach from their screens. These aren’t minor inconveniences—they are serious risks to learning, mental health, and safety.
And yet, society continues to hand these powerful, addictive devices to children with little more than a shrug. Would we give a 13-year-old the keys to a car without requiring lessons, supervision, and a licence? Of course not. Cars are dangerous in untrained hands. But so are phones and social media. They can kill attention spans, damage mental health, and in tragic cases, drive young people toward self-harm.
It’s time to treat digital literacy like driver’s education. Before gaining access to social media—or even owning a smartphone—young people should have to complete a course on healthy, responsible use of technology. They should then pass an exam, just as they would for a driving licence. Only by demonstrating that they understand the risks and responsibilities should they be allowed full access.
The South Korean ban is an important first step, but it doesn’t go far enough. To truly protect the next generation, we need to reframe phones and the internet not as harmless toys, but as powerful tools requiring education and regulation. A digital licence could be the key to ensuring that children grow up with control over technology—rather than being controlled by it.
In much of Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union, the start of the school year is not just another day on the calendar. September 1st is celebrated as the “Day of Knowledge”, a festive occasion marking the beginning of the academic year and a milestone in children’s lives.
The heart of the celebration is the First Bell ceremony. Families gather at schools, children arrive in their best clothes, and first-graders carry bouquets of flowers to present to their new teachers. The entire community comes together — parents, grandparents, teachers, and older pupils — to mark the moment when a new generation enters the school system.
A highlight of the day is the symbolic role of the oldest students in the school. They stand as mentors and guardians for the newcomers, welcoming the youngest pupils into their school family. In many schools, a beloved ritual unfolds: a senior student lifts a first-grader onto their shoulders while the child rings a small hand bell. This ringing of the “first bell” represents the start of the school journey and the promise of guidance, care, and learning ahead.
While September 1st is standard across Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and several Central Asian republics, other countries adapt the tradition to their own calendars. In Bulgaria, for example, schools open with a similar bell-ringing ceremony on 15 September. In Serbia, the school year also begins around 1 September, with local customs to welcome first-graders, though it is not formally called the Day of Knowledge. Despite these differences, the theme is shared: education is not only about textbooks, but also about community, continuity, and shared responsibility.
The atmosphere is festive but also deeply symbolic. For families, especially those sending their first child to school, it is an emotional milestone. For teachers, it is a renewal of purpose. And for the first-graders themselves, it is often the first taste of belonging to a wider community beyond their family.
It is also worth mentioning that in many of these countries, the school year is framed not just by the First Bell but also by the Last Bell. Held in late May, the Last Bell marks the end of the school year and, for graduating students, the close of their school journey. Just as the First Bell welcomes children into the world of learning, the Last Bell sends them forth — celebrated with songs, speeches, and, once again, the symbolic ringing of the bell. Together, these two ceremonies highlight the cultural significance of schooling as both a beginning and an ending, woven into the rhythm of community life.
Twenty years ago, we still wrote letters, filled in forms by hand, and scribbled notes in margins. Today, most of us type, swipe, or tap. Keyboards and touchscreens have transformed how we communicate—but they risk erasing one of humanity’s most elegant skills: handwriting.
One of my two most treasured belongings is a sky-blue Caran d’Ache fountain pen, bought on a summer holiday. The other is a simple analogue wristwatch (don’t get me started on disposable digital plastic strapped to the wrist!). For me, nothing compares to the beauty of a handwritten letter—the sweep of ink, the individuality of style, the dignity of effort.
My most treasured teaching memory after 30+ years came from three weeks working with a 12-year-old boy, Nikita. Every day for an hour, he copied my best attempt at an Arial font alphabet—lower case, then upper, then cursive. At first, his pencil crawled like a caterpillar. But day by day, he transformed. At the end of those weeks, he was writing like a butterfly in full flight: graceful, balanced, elegant. When I asked him to write on the whiteboard, one friend laughed, “He’s got the worst handwriting ever.” But before I could intervene, a girl spoke up: “No, Nikita’s got the best handwriting in the class.” Soon, everyone agreed. It was a moment of quiet triumph.
Of course, cave drawings were surpassed by photography. Hand sewing by mass production. Slowly cooked Sunday roasts by microwaves. And handwritten letters by emails and emojis. But some things survive because they are more than practical—they carry meaning.
And here’s where IB Diploma teachers come in. Our exams are still handwritten. AI hasn’t taken our jobs yet, and the future hasn’t stolen our past. Whether Cyrillic, English, Thai, or Arabic, let’s celebrate elegant handwriting. Let’s encourage our students to see it not as an obsolete chore but as a skill of dignity, beauty, and identity.
In the “factory of the future,” handwriting may be rare. But in our classrooms, it can still be cherished. And who knows, perhaps a blue fountain pen and three weeks of care can still turn a caterpillar into a butterfly.
A week ago, the IB Diploma results landed — the long-anticipated climax to two gruelling, rewarding, unpredictable years. For us teachers, it’s the end of a journey marked not just by planning, teaching, and assessing, but also by sleepless nights, student meltdowns, awkward parent meetings, internal deadlines, and navigating the relentless tide of CAS logs, EE drafts, IA deadlines, and Theory of Knowledge epiphanies (or not). Somewhere in the mix: online PDs, five-year evaluations, and staffroom diplomacy.
So, firstly: well done. You made it. You stayed (mostly) sane. That’s no small thing.
Secondly: whatever the grade breakdowns or the points out of 45, your students succeeded. Because the IB Diploma Programme is not just a gateway to university — it’s a transformation. It’s about guiding students through complex ideas, encouraging them to ask better questions, helping them reflect, write, fail, revise, persevere. We gave them knowledge — yes — but also ways to think, to evaluate, to connect. We taught them to research, to balance creativity with critical thinking, to serve others. We nudged them to consider perspectives beyond their own, to appreciate other cultures, and to see language as a window rather than a wall.
And while today’s focus for many families might still be on numbers and thresholds, we know that the true value of the IB is long-term. Eventually, most students will forget their score — but they’ll remember how TOK changed their thinking, how the EE taught them to explore independently, how CAS challenged them to give, grow, and reflect. They’ll remember you.
So take a breath, reflect, and recover. Forget about moderation processes and the scaling machinery – we’ll neber be told the truth about these. You didn’t just get your students through the programme, you helped shape better people.
Now go enjoy your coffee. Or something stronger. You earned it.
All IB assessments—whether exams, internal assessments, Theory of Knowledge essays, Extended Essays, or CAS—are assessed using clearly defined criteria. These describe what a student must demonstrate to achieve a particular level of performance. For example, a criterion might state: “The student evaluates the implications of cultural dimensions on behaviour.” The task of the examiner is to judge whether, and to what extent, the student has met this criterion. This is a standards-based approach: performance is measured against fixed descriptors, not against the performance of other students.
How does the concept of criterion-based assessment match with statistical scaling of results?
This means that raw marks reflect how well a student met the specified criteria—independently of how other students performed.
The challenge arises because even though the criteria remain constant, the exams themselves vary slightly from session to session in terms of difficulty. For example, one year’s psychology paper may include case studies or questions that are more conceptually challenging than the previous year’s.
This is where statistical scaling comes in. Once all papers are marked according to the criteria, the IB uses a process called grade boundary setting, supported by expert judgement, to determine what raw mark range should correspond to each grade (1 to 7). For example, while 65/100 might earn a 6 one year, it might only earn a 5 the next year if the exam was slightly easier.
So, the criteria tell us how many marks a student earns, and statistical scaling determines how those marks map onto grades, ensuring fairness across different cohorts and exam sessions.
Reconciling the two
In short, criterion-based marking ensures validity (students are assessed on what they know and can do), while statistical scaling ensures reliability and comparability (grades mean the same thing year to year).
They can absolutely be reconciled because they operate at different stages of the assessment process:
Criteria are used during the marking stage to ensure objective and consistent scoring.
Scaling is used at the grade-setting stage to account for differences in exam difficulty across sessions.
This dual approach helps maintain both academic integrity and global consistency in the awarding of IB grades.
Many of us in IB classrooms are noticing an increase in students using AI to ‘assist’ wirh their IAs, Extended Essays, and TOK essays. But the question isn’t how do we stop students using AI? The better question is: why are they turning to it in the first place?
In most cases, AI use is a symptom of deeper issues:
Incomplete research skills: Students struggle with framing research questions, analysing sources, and building arguments. These are central to the Diploma Programme, but many students need more scaffolding earlier in the process.
Poor time management: Extended tasks require sustained effort over months. Students often leave things too late, then panic. AI feels like an easy fast-fix.
Language challenges: Academic writing in English is daunting for many. AI offers fluent, polished prose many DP students may not feel capable of producing on their own.
Crushing pressure to achieve: IB students feel immense pressure — from parents, universities, and themselves — to secure top grades. The fear of underperforming leads some to seek ‘perfect’ answers generated by AI.
Fear of failing IB standards: With rubrics, formal assessments, and high expectations, many students lose confidence and look for safety nets.
So, what can we do?
Build explicit research and inquiry instruction into the curriculum early and often.
Break large assignments into manageable milestones with frequent check-ins.
Offer targeted academic writing support, especially for non-native speakers.
Create a classroom culture that values process over perfection — encourage drafts, reflection, and feedback.
Provide emotional support to ease anxiety around performance and failure.
AI is not the problem — unmet needs are. If we strengthen our teaching around these core areas, we empower students to rely on their own thinking, which is exactly what the Diploma Programme is designed to develop.
I think, therefore IB 