At EUh elementary schools, artificial intelligence appears with all the discretion of unknown cosmic Comet.
Everyone whispers about it, few have seen it in full brightness, and when it does flash across the staff room, most teachers hesitate; unsure whether it’s the dawn of a new epoch or just a hallucination produced by an ancient projector stuck in an eternal Windows 10 update loop.
The teaching staff faces this cybernetic demon with the pride of ancient heroes.
The school’s digital footprint resembles a partisan map: some log in through official accounts, others through private emails, and the truly progressive ones parasitize on the accounts of former pupils who have been studying in Plzeň for years.
Against this guerrilla backdrop, GDPR transforms from a dull EU directive into pure, unrestrained poetry; a literary genre somewhere between dadaism and absolute surrender to fate.
And what is this silicon miracle used for?
For the ritual worship of the supreme deity of EU education: the worksheet.
The worksheet is the proton of the pedagogical universe, the alpha and omega of every lesson.
Without it, without this printed scrap of paper, the entire educational cosmos would collapse into a black hole of singularity.
A place where pupils would, heaven forbid, have to confront the emptiness of their own thoughts and the terrifying threat of silence.
Pupils, of course, flirt with AI as well, but with the caution of sinners in a sacristy.
Teachers know it, but prefer to avert their gaze.
If they asked out loud, they would have to face questions that tear at the foundations of Western philosophy:
“Miss, if I came up with the idea, but AI deleted my natural spelling mistakes and gave it structure, whose soul is actually speaking in that text?”
There is no answer to that which wouldn’t end in collective crying in the geography office.
The Holy Trinity of Resignation
Staff rooms echo with lamentations that AI “makes things up.”
A touching display of amnesia.
Pupils have been doing exactly that since the days of Maria Theresa; just with a smaller vocabulary and lower self‑confidence.
Now the circle is complete, forming the perfect, aesthetically balanced triad of modern education:
AI hallucinates = The pupil improvises = The teacher resigns
Close behind marches the fear of “losing originality.”
Ah, the pre‑digital era!
A time when every student report on Charles IV was a geyser of originality, a baroque firework of fresh metaphors and deep literary invention (which the student definitely did not copy from Wikipedia).
And today?
Today we receive texts with structure, introductions, conclusions — and worst of all, they make sense.
A true tragedy for creative rebellion.
Warnings about “overreliance on technology” sound especially charming in an environment where people still believe that the ritual restart of a Minolta printer can cure the structural crisis of the school system.
Directives as a Shield Against Progress
School leadership, naturally, does not sleep.
To institutionalize the chaos, they produce directives, checklists, and Excel sheets of cyber‑risks.
The whole performance looks wonderfully European and professional; at least until you realize that half the authors of these decrees still can’t open Teams without accidentally deleting a shared drive or creating a new class called “6.C — Archive of Oblivion.”
And yet, despite all the decrees, AI quietly and imperceptibly wins.
Not because anyone understands it, but because it is the only ally capable of generating a text about the Crusaders; complete with five subject‑predicate agreement traps in a hundred and twenty seconds.
A task that once cost a teacher three precious breaks and one desperate evening over a glass of cheap merlot.
There is no thunderous revolution.
We are living through a quiet, tender pact of non‑aggression:
- Teachers pretend AI is just a sophisticated pencil sharpener,
- AI pretends it understands the national curriculum,
- Pupils pretend those flawless paragraphs on photosynthesis are the fruit of sudden intellectual awakening.
Perhaps this is the true future of education:
a grand, melancholic improvisation in which everyone keeps a straight face while pretending to hold the wheel of a ship that has long been running on autopilot.