South Africa’s Sports Obsession: Our Last Shred of Sanity

 

When Did Measuring Learning Become More Important Than Learning?

Disclaimer: An uncomfortable question about the direction of modern education. And my longest blog yet... But I implore anyone serious about education to read it. 

I've been thinking a great deal about the future of education.

Not because of some revolutionary new technology or an exciting curriculum development. Quite the opposite, actually.

I've been thinking about it because I'm becoming increasingly concerned that, despite all our talk about innovation, educational excellence and preparing children for the future, we seem to be heading backwards.

And the irony is that we appear to be doing so with the very best of intentions.

Across the world, schools and educational organisations are investing enormous amounts of money, time and energy into improving academic outcomes. We have sophisticated assessment systems, increasingly powerful technology, mountains of data and more ways to measure a child's progress than ever before.

On paper, it all sounds rather impressive.

But I have a question.

Are we actually improving education, or are we simply getting better at measuring it?

Because those are two very different things.

The Great Educational Contradiction

Spend any time listening to educational leaders, academics or university representatives and you will hear a remarkably consistent message about the skills young people will need in the future.

Creativity. Collaboration. Critical thinking. Curiosity. Adaptability. Problem-solving.

We are told that the world is changing rapidly, that artificial intelligence will fundamentally reshape employment and that many of the jobs our children will eventually do don't even exist yet.

I agree wholeheartedly.

In fact, I would argue that these skills should already be at the centre of everything we do in schools.

And yet, when we examine what is happening in many classrooms, a rather different picture emerges.

More standardised assessments.

More prescribed programmes.

More online exercises.

More data collection.

More academic targets.

More pressure to produce measurable results.

All neatly packaged under the increasingly popular banners of academic excellence, best practice and academic rigour.

I can't help wondering whether we have misunderstood what educational excellence should look like.

We tell children that creativity is important but increasingly reward them for producing predetermined answers.

We encourage curiosity, but struggle to find time for questions that fall outside the curriculum.

We celebrate collaboration but continue to judge academic success largely through individual performance.

And then we wonder why young people sometimes struggle when they enter a world that demands precisely the skills we have spent years undervaluing.

Surely we can see the contradiction?

The Obsession with Assessment

Let me be clear about something. I am not opposed to assessment.

Good assessment is an essential part of effective teaching. Teachers need to understand what children know, where they are struggling and how best to support their progress.

But somewhere along the way, assessment seems to have shifted from being a tool that supports teaching to becoming something that increasingly drives it.

And that should concern all of us.

Standardised assessments, often referred to as common or benchmark assessments, are becoming increasingly attractive to large educational organisations.

I understand why.

They provide consistency. They allow comparisons between schools. They identify potential weaknesses. They produce attractive graphs and dashboards.

From a management perspective, what's not to like?

But children are not spreadsheets.

And teaching is not a manufacturing process.

Interestingly, international research suggests that the relationship between standardised accountability and improved educational outcomes is considerably less straightforward than we might assume.

A 2021 OECD study examining test-based school accountability found no conclusive evidence that these practices improved educational outcomes in high-income countries. In lower- and middle-income countries, the findings were more mixed, with some evidence of improved performance alongside increased inequality, although these results were limited to particular subjects and statistical models.

That doesn't mean standardised assessments are ineffective. It means we should be cautious about assuming that introducing more of them will automatically improve education.

Consider Singapore.

One of the world's strongest-performing education systems has deliberately reduced formal examinations.

By 2023, mid-year examinations had been removed across primary and secondary education, with the intention of reducing excessive emphasis on testing and creating more time for deeper learning.

Think about that.

A country internationally recognised for academic excellence decided that reducing certain examinations could benefit education.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, we continue to assume that adding assessments must surely represent progress.

Of course, Singapore has not abandoned academic standards or assessment. Far from it.

But it has recognised something important.

The amount of assessment taking place is not necessarily an indication of the quality of learning.

An assessment might tell me that a child has not mastered a particular mathematical concept. Useful information.

What it cannot necessarily tell me is why.

Perhaps the child lacks confidence. Perhaps they learn differently. Perhaps they were anxious on the day. Perhaps they understand the mathematics but struggle with the language of the question.

That is where a good teacher comes in.

A teacher who knows the child, understands the context and can respond appropriately.

And that raises another question.

If schools already have sophisticated systems for measuring academic progress, how much additional value do repeated layers of assessment actually provide?

At what point are we simply collecting more information about something we already understand?

Because every assessment requires time.

Time to prepare.

Time to administer.

Time to mark.

Time to analyse.

And time to respond.

Time that has to come from somewhere.

A nine-year-old should not experience education as a continuous process of preparing for the next academic measurement.

There has to be more to childhood than that.

When Technology Becomes the Teacher's Master

Then there is technology.

Now, I am certainly not advocating a return to chalkboards and dusty textbooks.

Technology has enormous potential to transform education, and used intelligently, it can personalise learning, provide immediate feedback and support children who need additional help.

Wonderful.

But there is an important distinction between using technology to enhance teaching and allowing technology to dictate teaching.

Increasingly, schools are adopting multiple digital learning platforms covering everything from mathematics and reading comprehension to spelling and literacy.

Each programme promises something valuable.

Each comes with its own dashboard.

Each produces its own data.

And each requires time.

One programme wants children completing weekly mathematical exercises. Another requires reading activities. Another tracks literacy development. Another monitors comprehension.

Individually, these might all be perfectly reasonable.

Collectively, however, they create a problem that seems to receive remarkably little attention.

Where is the time supposed to come from?

The school day has not magically become longer.

The curriculum has not suddenly become smaller.

And children have not developed an extraordinary ability to concentrate for unlimited periods.

Something has to give.

More often than not, it is the very learning experiences we claim to value most.

The inquiry-based projects.

The collaborative problem-solving.

The discussions that take an unexpected but fascinating direction.

These are not educational luxuries.

They are fundamental to meaningful learning.

UNESCO's 2023 Global Education Monitoring Report raised serious concerns about the shortage of robust, independent evidence demonstrating the added value of educational technology.

Citing a review conducted in the United Kingdom, the report noted that only 7% of the educational technology companies examined had conducted randomised controlled trials of their products.

Seven percent.

Of course, randomised controlled trials are not the only way to demonstrate educational effectiveness, and this statistic does not mean the remaining programmes are ineffective.

But it does raise an uncomfortable question.

If we demand evidence of academic progress from every child and teacher, shouldn't we demand equally convincing evidence from the programmes we require them to use?

And shouldn't that evidence demonstrate improvements in learning rather than simply increased activity on a platform?

Because there is a significant difference between a child being busy and a child genuinely learning.

The situation becomes even more concerning when programme usage is linked to staff performance indicators.

Think about that for a moment.

We are potentially measuring a teacher's effectiveness partly by how frequently children use a digital platform.

Not necessarily by the quality of the learning taking place.

Not by the richness of classroom discussions.

But by whether sufficient activity has been recorded on a computer system. Surely something has gone wrong.

A child completing twenty online exercises does not automatically represent better learning than a child spending forty minutes exploring one complex problem with classmates.

But one is considerably easier to measure. And perhaps that is precisely the problem.

What Happened to Inquiry-Based Learning?

For years, progressive educators have been exploring approaches that place children at the centre of learning.

Inquiry-based learning, collaborative activities, differentiated teaching and carefully structured classroom rotations offer opportunities to move beyond the traditional model of a teacher delivering information to largely passive learners.

These approaches require skilled teachers, thoughtful planning, clear learning objectives and appropriate assessment.

And they certainly do not mean abandoning explicit instruction or academic expectations.

In fact, some of the most effective learning environments combine strong foundational teaching with opportunities for children to investigate, collaborate and apply their knowledge independently.

This is not a choice between traditional teaching and progressive education.

Good education draws on both.

When implemented well, these approaches create something extraordinary.

Children become active participants in their education.

They ask questions.

They investigate.

They disagree.

They collaborate.

They make mistakes.

They discover that learning is not simply about remembering the correct answer but understanding how to arrive at one.

I have seen first-hand what happens when schools genuinely embrace this philosophy.

I've seen children who previously struggled in conventional classrooms suddenly find their confidence.

I've seen teachers rediscover their enthusiasm for the profession.

And I've seen academic achievement coexist quite comfortably with creativity, curiosity and genuine enjoyment of learning.

Which makes the current direction of so much educational thinking particularly frustrating.

Rather than building on these approaches, we seem increasingly attracted to systems that promise consistency, predictability and control.

I understand the appeal.

It is far easier to manage a large network of schools when everyone is doing broadly the same thing.

But consistency is not the same as excellence. And standardisation is certainly not the same as innovation.

Sometimes the very things that make a school exceptional are the things that cannot easily be replicated across fifty other schools.

We should be celebrating those differences, learning from them and encouraging teachers to experiment.

Not quietly eliminating them in the pursuit of uniformity.

Academic Rigour at What Cost?

There is a phrase that seems to be enjoying something of a revival in education.

Academic rigour.

It sounds impressive. It suggests high standards, intellectual challenge and a refusal to accept mediocrity.

All admirable ambitions.

But I worry that the phrase is sometimes being used to justify an increasingly narrow understanding of academic success.

More testing does not automatically mean greater rigour.

More homework does not automatically mean deeper learning.

More difficult assessments do not necessarily produce more capable thinkers.

And higher averages do not tell us everything we need to know about the quality of an education.

I have absolutely no objection to ambitious academic targets.

Schools should expect children to achieve highly.

But when organisational ambitions become dominated by particular marks, grades or averages, there is a danger that everything else becomes secondary.

The question shifts from "What does this child need to flourish?" to "How do we improve this child's measurable performance?"

Those questions are not necessarily incompatible.

But they are not interchangeable either.

And somewhere in this conversation, we need to talk about wellbeing.

Children are already growing up in a world of extraordinary pressure.

Social media, comparison, anxiety, expectations and an increasingly uncertain future all form part of their daily reality.

Do we really want schools adding to that pressure by creating environments in which academic performance becomes the dominant measure of personal success?

I would much rather see a child leave primary school with a genuine love of learning, a healthy sense of self-worth and the confidence to tackle unfamiliar challenges than with an impressive collection of marks but very little enthusiasm for education.

Ideally, of course, we should achieve both.

That is what genuine academic excellence should aspire to.

And What About the Teachers?

Perhaps the greatest irony in all of this is what we are doing to the very people responsible for delivering these ambitious educational outcomes.

Across the world, education systems are grappling with teacher shortages, declining morale and growing concerns about retention.

We talk endlessly about attracting talented people into the profession.

We discuss employee wellbeing.

We celebrate teachers as our greatest resource.

And then we systematically increase their administrative responsibilities.

Another assessment to administer.

Another set of results to analyse.

Another digital platform to monitor.

Another performance indicator to meet.

Another report to complete.

Another deadline.

All while expecting them to deliver engaging lessons, differentiate effectively, support children with diverse learning needs, communicate with parents and maintain excellent academic outcomes.

At what point do we acknowledge that this is simply not sustainable?

The OECD's TALIS 2024 international teacher survey provides some sobering evidence.

In South Africa, 72% of participating lower-secondary teachers identified excessive marking as a source of stress.

A further 70% reported stress associated with being held responsible for student achievement, while 66% identified excessive administrative work.

These are not insignificant numbers.

And they are not simply the complaints of a handful of teachers resistant to change. They reflect a genuine challenge facing the profession.

Teachers are not necessarily objecting to the work of teaching.

They are struggling with the growing collection of responsibilities that compete with it.

And yet we continue adding more.

More assessments.

More data.

More systems.

More reporting.

All in pursuit of educational improvement.

But who is stopping to ask what should be removed?

Surely every new initiative should be accompanied by an equally important question:

What are we going to stop doing to make room for this?

Because without that conversation, improvement eventually becomes accumulation.

And accumulation becomes overload.

Teachers enter the profession because they want to teach.

They want to inspire children, build relationships and develop young minds.

Very few enter teaching because they have an overwhelming desire to manage online dashboards.

If we genuinely want to attract and retain exceptional teachers, perhaps we should begin by trusting them.

Give them the professional freedom to make informed decisions.

Allow them to innovate.

Reduce unnecessary administration.

And recognise that teaching is a highly skilled profession requiring judgement, creativity and human connection.

You cannot continually remove professional autonomy from teachers and then wonder why they no longer feel professionally fulfilled.

The Business of Education

This is perhaps the most uncomfortable part of the conversation.

Education is increasingly big business. Particularly within the independent sector.

There is nothing inherently wrong with that.

Successful educational organisations can invest in excellent facilities, attract talented staff and develop innovative programmes.

Scale can be an enormous advantage.

But scale also creates pressure.

Pressure to demonstrate results.

Pressure to provide consistency.

Pressure to justify shareholder investment.

And, inevitably, pressure to attract and retain customers.

Which raises an uncomfortable question.

Are we making educational decisions because they are genuinely best for children, or because they produce outcomes that are easier to market?

Perhaps the real danger is not that educational organisations deliberately put commercial interests ahead of children.

It is that, over time, the distinction between educational success and commercial success becomes so blurred that nobody thinks to question it anymore.

An impressive academic average looks wonderful in a prospectus.

A collection of distinctions makes for excellent social media content.

A graph demonstrating year-on-year improvement is reassuring to parents.

But how do we market curiosity?

How do we quantify resilience?

What does a child's growing confidence look like on a corporate dashboard?

We struggle to measure these things, so we risk placing less emphasis on them.

Not because they are less important, but because they are less convenient.

And that is a dangerous direction for education to take.

Particularly when organisations with substantial resources have the opportunity to lead genuine educational transformation.

Imagine what could be achieved if those resources were directed towards rethinking the school experience.

Investing in teacher wellness.

Exploring genuinely personalised learning.

Giving schools the freedom to develop innovative approaches.

Designing assessment systems that support learning rather than dominate it.

And placing student wellbeing alongside academic achievement as an equally important measure of success.

That would be educational leadership worth celebrating.

The Courage to Do Things Differently

I sometimes wonder whether education's greatest obstacle is not a lack of ideas, research or resources.

Perhaps it is simply a lack of courage.

The courage to challenge established practices.

The courage to trust teachers.

The courage to recognise that children are individuals rather than standardised products.

And the courage to resist the temptation to measure everything simply because we can.

Finland offers an interesting example.

Its primary and lower-secondary education system does not use national standardised tests for individual pupils.

Instead, teachers assess learning throughout the school year, while national evaluations provide broader information about educational standards.

Finland's education system is certainly not perfect. But its approach demonstrates that it is possible to monitor educational quality without requiring every child to complete the same national test every year.

More importantly, it reflects a philosophy in which professional trust plays a central role.

And perhaps that is something we should be discussing more often.

Not how to make every teacher do exactly the same thing.

But how to develop teachers who are sufficiently skilled, knowledgeable and confident to make excellent professional decisions.

And this is where I believe the larger educational organisations have a particularly important responsibility.

They have the resources, expertise and influence to challenge conventional schooling in ways that smaller institutions often cannot.

They could be leading a genuine educational revolution.

Instead, there is a danger that some are becoming exceptionally good at standardising the past.

More sophisticated assessments.

More powerful data systems.

More carefully monitored academic targets.

All designed to improve the efficiency of an educational model that may no longer adequately serve the world our children are entering.

We seem determined to build a better version of yesterday's school rather than imagining what tomorrow's school could become.

And perhaps the most uncomfortable question of all is whether genuine educational transformation is simply too difficult to measure, too challenging to manage and too unpredictable to market.

After all, it is considerably easier to advertise improved examination results than to demonstrate that a school has developed a generation of curious, resilient and independent thinkers.

But surely educational leadership should be about more than producing attractive statistics.

Surely it should be about having the courage to do what is right for children, even when the results cannot be neatly presented on a dashboard.

Children still need to read fluently.

They need strong mathematical foundations.

They need knowledge, discipline, perseverance and the ability to communicate effectively.

Explicit instruction, practice and meaningful assessment all have important roles to play.

But these should form the foundation upon which richer learning experiences are built.

They should not become the entire educational experience.

We should be developing young people who can think, question, collaborate, create and adapt.

Young people who are curious.

Young people who understand that making mistakes is part of learning.

And young people who leave school believing that education is something exciting and worthwhile, rather than a succession of hurdles to overcome.

Surely that is a more meaningful definition of academic excellence.

A Final Thought

I genuinely believe we are standing at one of the most significant crossroads in the history of education.

Artificial intelligence is already challenging traditional assumptions about knowledge, assessment and the skills young people will need.

The world our children are entering will be fundamentally different from the one in which most of us were educated.

And yet, rather than embracing the opportunity to rethink schooling, parts of the education sector seem increasingly determined to perfect the very model that needs reconsideration.

More standardisation.

More measurement.

More control.

All in the name of progress.

I find that deeply concerning.

Because when educational organisations speak passionately about innovation, creativity and preparing children for the future, those ambitions should be visible in their classrooms, not simply in their mission statements.

You cannot claim to be reinventing education while systematically removing the very freedom that makes innovation possible.

You cannot champion critical thinking while expecting unquestioning compliance with increasingly prescriptive systems.

And you cannot genuinely prioritise teacher wellbeing while continually adding responsibilities without removing anything in return.

At some point, the language of educational excellence has to be matched by the reality of what children and teachers experience every day.

Otherwise, it risks becoming little more than an impressive marketing exercise.

The irony is that academic excellence and child-centred education are not competing philosophies.

They are entirely compatible.

But achieving both requires us to look beyond the numbers.

To recognise that a school is not a production line, a teacher is not a data administrator and a child is certainly not an academic statistic.

And perhaps, before introducing the next assessment, the next digital programme or the next ambitious performance target, we should ask ourselves one very simple question:

Will this genuinely make learning better for the child sitting in front of us?

Not will it produce better data.

Not will it make our results easier to compare.

Not will it look impressive in an annual report.

Will it genuinely make learning better?

Because if we cannot answer that question convincingly, perhaps we should have the courage to stop.

The future of education will not be determined by who collects the most data, administers the most assessments or produces the most impressive academic averages.

It will be determined by who has the courage to challenge the assumptions upon which our schools have been built.

And I worry that, in our relentless pursuit of academic excellence, we are losing sight of the very purpose of education.

We are so busy measuring whether children are succeeding at school that we may have forgotten to ask whether school is succeeding for children.