As smartphones become pacifiers, playgrounds, and classrooms in one glowing screen, we must urgently rethink how much is too much for young minds
SYED MEHWISH
In homes across Kashmir today, a familiar scene plays out. A restless child is handed a mobile phone so that the adults can finish a conversation, a chore, or a meal in peace. The screen lights up, the child falls silent, and for a brief moment, everyone is relieved. What looks like a harmless convenience, even a small miracle of modern technology, is quietly reshaping childhood itself.
The mobile phone has become the most powerful object in our children’s lives. It is their toy, tutor, storyteller, and companion. It is often the first and last thing they see each day. But as this tiny screen takes centre stage, parents, teachers, and doctors are growing increasingly worried. Are we giving our children a tool for learning and connection, or a device that steals their attention, disturbs their sleep, and weakens their bodies and minds?
Childhood everywhere is changing, but in a place like Kashmir, the mobile phone enters a particularly fragile landscape. On one hand, it has been a lifeline, allowing online classes, connecting students to digital libraries, and opening windows to a wider world. Many parents feel they have no choice but to rely on phones so their children can keep up with studies and stay informed.
Yet the same device that delivers knowledge also delivers endless distraction. Short videos, games, and social media platforms are designed to keep users hooked, and children are the easiest targets. The result is a quiet but serious shift: reading habits are shrinking, attention spans are shortening, and the slow, reflective learning that textbooks demand is losing the battle to fast, flashy content.
The impact is not just educational; it is emotional and social. Teachers in Kashmir often speak of a new restlessness among younger students, the inability to sit with a book, listen to a lesson, or stay engaged in class without the constant urge for stimulation. Parents, too, notice the changes at home: children who once played outdoors now prefer to sit in a corner, hunched over a screen; family conversations are replaced by silent scrolling; tantrums erupt the moment the phone is taken away.
This is not mere nostalgia for some idealised past. Health experts warn that excessive screen time in children is linked with disturbed sleep, eye strain, headaches, rising obesity, and even signs of anxiety and depression. For a generation already living with stress and uncertainty, we may be adding a new burden, one that is invisible but deeply corrosive.
Kashmiri society has always taken pride in strong family bonds, respect for elders, and close-knit communities. These values are difficult to pass on through a screen. Children learn empathy, patience, and responsibility not from videos and apps, but from real interactions, helping grandparents, playing with neighbours, arguing and making up with siblings, or simply getting bored and finding creative ways to use their time. When mobiles fill every empty moment, the space for imagination and genuine human connection shrinks.
None of this means that mobile phones must be demonised or banished from our homes. That would be neither realistic nor wise. Digital literacy is now as important as traditional literacy. Our children will grow up in a world where the ability to use technology will shape their opportunities and careers. The question is not whether children should use mobile phones, but how, when, and how much.
The first responsibility lies with parents. Handing over a phone should not be the default response to a child’s boredom or misbehaviour. Families must set clear boundaries: no phones at meal times, no screens before bed, age-appropriate content only, and fixed daily limits for entertainment use. Younger children, especially under six, should be kept away from unsupervised screen exposure as far as possible. When phones are used for studies, parents should stay aware of what is being viewed and for how long.
Schools, too, cannot stay silent spectators. Instead of simply banning phones or ignoring the issue, educational institutions in Kashmir should hold regular sessions for students and parents on healthy technology habits. Teachers can encourage projects and activities that take children outdoors, into libraries, and into their communities, reminding them that learning is not limited to what appears on a screen.
Policy makers have a role as well. Regulation of child-targeted content, stronger safeguards against addictive apps and games, and public awareness campaigns about responsible digital use are all urgently needed. Telecom companies and content platforms must also be pushed to act responsibly; profit cannot come at the cost of a generation’s well-being.
Ultimately, this is not just a debate about gadgets, but about the kind of childhood we want for our children in Kashmir. Do we want young minds shaped primarily by commercial algorithms and endless entertainment, or by families, teachers, books, nature, and real-life experiences? Mobile phones can certainly be useful tools, but they must never become substitutes for parenting, teaching, or community.
The glow of the screen is seductive, but the light of a curious, healthy, and balanced child is far more precious. As a society, we must act now; thoughtfully, collectively, and consistently, to ensure that in embracing technology, we do not lose our children to it.
( The author is an Assistant Professor, social activist and freelancer)