It is telling that parents in Silicon Valley, who would know, are restricting and even banning screen time for their children. Meanwhile, the World Health Organization has just released a new set of guidelines on how much time parents should allow young children to spend with screens: Kids younger than 1 year old should have none, while kids ages 2 to 4 should have a maximum of an hour a day in front of a screen.
While the guidelines emphasized the health consequences of a sedentary life over the possible negative consequences of staring at a screen, there is also the question of whether the digital revolution is changing the way we learn and read.
In Germany, where Johannes Gutenberg invented the printing press in the 15th century, some advocate in favor of reading in print versus reading in digital. One of them is Sandra Richter, director of the prestigious German Literature Archive in Marbach and author of this piece for the Munich-based media Süddeutsche Zeitung.
MARBACH AM NECKAR — Politically, the future is programmed for digitality. This year, the Digital Pact, a 5-billion-euro digitalization program by the German Education Ministry, will bring the latest technologies into the classroom. Great promises flank this political and educational effort: Students will become digitally literate, preparing them for the job market and the democratic society of tomorrow. Digital tools and materials are expected to show us the way.
But a group of 200 European scholars, including scientists specialized in reading, have recently dampened the enthusiasm for digital learning and reading with a new study. They found that when we read digitally, especially under pressure for time, we're overconfident with our comprehension of the text. We read more superficially digitally than in print. Does this mean the new digital policy program will lead to the opposite of their intended goal? Does digital literacy eat up reading skills? In order to answer these questions, we first have to agree on what digital media can and cannot achieve.
First, digitality engenders participation. The use of digital technology facilitates access to texts and works of art wherever WiFi can be found. Second, digital media promote individualized learning. Preprogrammed, easily accessible and controllable computer exercises emancipate teachers and students, regardless of whether the tasks at hand are mathematical or grammatical. Third, digitality complements analysis techniques. In the humanities, for example, computers help to determine word frequencies in texts, to zoom in on image details, or to compare audio data.
Young child browses computer and learns how to use a mouse. — Photo: Miika Silfverberg.
At the same time, however, reading and interpretation get more complicated as long-forgotten texts and artifacts emerge in digital catalogs. Today we have access to more documents than we did 30 years ago and must ask if our canon still holds against these finds.
When we read just for the pleasure of the story, then e-books are enough. If we only want to skim research articles, a digitized version is enough. After all, the electronic form accelerates communication while saving costs in chemicals, wood, and transport. However, according to a study by the Institute for Applied Ecology in Freiburg, this only applies after the tenth e-book.
Computers are terrible teachers.
If we're not just reading for fun or to get quick information, but to develop and preserve the cultural technique of interpretation, things are different. Given today's amount of data and social controversies, we rely more than ever on our techniques of interpretation, which are rightly considered an art form. Neither digital media nor digital analysis can cultivate such techniques.
Computers cannot yet deliver textual interpretations at the push of a button. Perhaps interpretation— the conversation between author, text, and reader— is a uniquely human gift. Computers are indifferent to sense and meaning. Machines cannot generate meaningful and historically informed interpretations of texts, nor interpersonal experiences and balanced judgments. Algorithms used for classification, aesthetic sense, and text-sensitive interpretation are not on the table. Computers are terrible teachers, role models, and master interpreters.
If you want to understand something, read it thoroughly. If you want to learn to read as a student, you will need to write with the pen, turn the pages from back to front, put texts next to one another and write something out. For the time being, reading print books guarantees good reading practices and text comprehension. If used correctly, digitality can create conditions that expand our analog reading in the long term. We should give the machines the chance to support us— but nothing more.
The confinement experience could turn brutal for those forced to live with relatives who would not tolerate a member of the family living their sexual orientation openly as a young adult. Here are stories from urban and rural India.
Abhijith had been working as a radio jockey in the southern Indian city of Thiruvananthapuram when the COVID-19 pandemic hit in March, 2020. When the government imposed a nationwide lockdown, Abhijith returned to the rural Pathanamthitta district , where his parents live with an extended family, including uncles, cousins and grandparents.
Eighteen months later, he recalled that the experience was "unbearable" because he had to live with homophobic relatives. "Apart from the frequent reference to my sexual 'abnormality', they took me to a guruji to 'cure' me," Abhijith recalled. "He gave me something to eat, which made me throw up. The guru assured me that I was throwing up whatever 'demon' was possessing me and 'making' me gay."
Early in 2021, Abhijith travelled back to Thiruvananthapuram, where he found support from the members of the queer collective.
Inspired by their work, he also decided to work towards uplifting the queer community. "I wish no one else goes through the mental trauma I have endured," said Abhijit.
Abhijith's story of mental distress arising from family abuse turns out to be all too common among members of India's LGBTQ+ community, many of whom were trapped in their homes and removed from peer support groups during the pandemic.
Oppressive home situations
As India continues to reel from a pandemic that has claimed more lives (235,524) in three months of the second wave (April-June 2021) than in the one year before that (162,960 deaths in March 2020-March 2021), the LGBTQ community has faced myriad problems. Sexual minorities have historically suffered from mainstream prejudice and the pandemic has aggravated socio-economic inequalities, instigated family and institutionalized abuse, apart from limiting access to essential care. This has resulted in acute mental distress which has overwhelmed queer support infrastructure across the country.
Speaking to queer collective representatives across India, I learned that the heightened levels of distress in the community was due to longstanding factors that were triggered under lockdown conditions. Family members who are intolerant of marginalized sexual identities, often tagging their orientation as a "disorder" or "just a phase", have always featured among the main perpetrators of subtle and overt forms of violence towards queer, trans and homosexual people.
Calls from lesbians and trans men to prevent forced marriages during lockdowns.
Sappho For Equality, a Kolkata-based feminist organization that works for the rights of sexually marginalized women and trans men, recorded a similar trend. Early in the first wave, the organization realized that the existing helpline number was getting overwhelmed with distress calls. It added a second helpline number. The comparative figures indicate a 13-fold jump in numbers: from 290 calls in April 2019-March 20 to 3,940 calls in April 2020-May 2021.
"Most of the calls we have been getting from lesbians and trans men are urgent appeals to prevent forced marriages during lockdowns," said Shreosi, a Sappho member and peer support provider. "If they happen to resist, they are either evicted or forced to flee home. But where to house them? There aren't so many shelters, and ours is at full capacity."
Shreosi says that the nature of distress calls has also changed. "Earlier people would call in for long-term help, such as professional mental health support. But during the pandemic, it has changed to immediate requests to rescue from oppressive home situations. Often, they will speak in whispers so that the parents can't hear."
Lack of spaces
Like many of his fellow queer community members, life for Sumit P., a 30-year-old gay man from Mumbai, has taken a turn for the worse. The lockdown has led to the loss of safe spaces and prolonged residence at home.
"It has been a really difficult time since the beginning of the lockdown. I am suffering from a lot of mental stress since I cannot freely express myself at home. Even while making a call, I have to check my surroundings to see if anybody is there. If I try to go out, my family demands an explanation. I feel suffocated," he said.
The pandemic has forced some queer people to come out
Sumit is also dealing with a risk that has hit the community harder than others – unemployment and income shortage. He's opened a cafe with two other queer friends, which is now running into losses. For others, pandemic-induced job losses have forced queer persons from all over the country to return to their home states and move in with their families who've turned abusive during this long period of confinement.
Lockdowns force coming out
According to Kolkata-based physician, filmmaker and gay rights activist Tirthankar Guha Thakurata, the pandemic has forced some queer people to come out, succumbing to rising discomfort and pressure exerted by homophobic families.
"In most cases, family relations sour when a person reveals their identity. But many do not flee home. They find a breathing space or 'space out' in their workspaces. In the absence of these spaces, mental problems rose significantly," he said.
Not being able to express themselves freely in front of parents who are hostile, intolerant and often address transgender persons by their deadname or misgender them has created situations of severe distress, suicidal thoughts and self-harm.
Psychiatrist and queer feminist activist Ranjita Biswas (she/they) cites an incident. A gender-nonconforming person died under suspicious circumstances just days after leaving their peer group and going home to their birth parents. The final rites were performed with them dressed in bangles and a saree.
"When a member of our community asked their mother why she chose a saree for someone who had worn androgynous clothes all their life, she plainly said it was natural because after all, the deceased 'was her daughter,'" Biswas recalls.
The Indian queer mental health support infrastructure, already compromised with historical prejudice, is now struggling
In India, queer people's access to professional mental healthcare has been "very limited," according to community members such as Ankan Biswas, India's first transgender lawyer who has been working with the Human Rights Law Network in West Bengal.
"A large majority of the psychiatrists still consider homosexuality as a disorder and practice 'correctional therapy'. It's only around the big cities that some queer-friendly psychiatrists can be found," Biswas said. "The pandemic has further widened the inequalities in access to mental health support for India's LGBTQ community."
Biswas is spending anxious days fielding an overwhelming amount of calls and rescue requests from queer members trapped in their homes, undergoing mental, verbal and even physical torture. "We don't have the space, I just tell them to wait and bear it a little longer," he said.
Medical care is dismal
Anuradha Krishnan's story, though not involving birth family, outlines how the lack of physical support spaces have affected India's queer population. Abandoned by her birth family when she came out to them as a trans woman in 2017, Anuradha Krishnan (she/they), founder of Queerythm in Kerala who is studying dentistry, had to move into an accommodation with four other persons.
Isolation triggered my depression
"I am used to talking and hanging around with friends. Isolation triggered my depression and I had to seek psychiatric help." Living in cramped quarters did not help with quarantine requirements and all of them tested positive during the first wave.
What is deeply worrying is that the Indian queer mental health support infrastructure, already compromised with historical prejudice, is now struggling, placing more and more pressure on queer collectives and peer support groups whose resources are wearing thin.
During the 10 months of the first wave of the pandemic in India in 2020, Y'all, a queer collective based in Manipur, received about 1,000 distress calls on their helpline number from LGBTQ+ individuals. In May 2021 alone, they received 450 such calls (including texts and WhatsApp messages) indicating a telling escalation in the number of queer people seeking help during the second wave.
As India's queer-friendly mental health support infrastructure continues to be tested, Y'all founder, Sadam Hanjabam, a gay man, says, "Honestly, we are struggling to handle such a large number of calls, it is so overwhelming. We are also dealing with our own anxieties. We are burning out."
Sreemanti Sengupta is a freelance writer, poet, and media studies lecturer based in Kolkata.
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