Over the past two years, schools and universities across the UK have wrestled with a deceptively simple question: Should students be allowed to use ChatGPT?
What began as a handful of precautionary “temporary restrictions” has grown into a patchwork of partial bans, strict usage rules, and—in some institutions—complete prohibitions. Some schools block the website entirely. Some universities require students to declare any AI assistance in assignments. Others still treat AI-generated work as academic misconduct.
To many members of the British public, these bans may seem sensible, even responsible. After all, stories of plagiarism, AI-written essays, and sudden spikes in suspiciously polished coursework have dominated headlines. Educational leaders feel pressure to “do something,” and banning is one of the easiest “somethings” available.
As an academic committee member who has observed these debates first-hand, I understand the anxieties. But I also believe we are making a profound error—one that threatens to widen educational inequalities, undermine critical thinking, and place the UK at a competitive disadvantage globally.
This is not a mere question of whether students should be allowed to use a new tool. It is a question of what kind of country we want to be: cautious or curious, reactive or innovative, closed or open to change.
Banning ChatGPT may relieve institutional panic in the short term, but the long-term consequences could be far more damaging.
Let us begin by addressing a misconception: the notion that students are suddenly outsourcing their entire workload to ChatGPT and that this poses an existential threat to academic integrity.
The truth is more nuanced. Yes, some students have submitted AI-generated work. But the scale of this issue has been dramatically overstated. Historically, every new technology—from calculators to Wikipedia—has triggered moral panic about cheating. The pattern is familiar:
A new tool emerges.
Some students exploit it.
Institutions respond with alarm.
Time passes.
The tool becomes integrated into accepted practice.
Banning a technology because it could be misused fails to acknowledge this historical pattern. It also neglects an important reality: students who intend to cut corners will always find a way.
What bans do achieve is punishing the conscientious majority who would otherwise use AI responsibly—as an assistant, a tutor, a brainstorming partner, or a drafting tool—much like previous generations used spellcheck, grammar checkers, or academic databases.
Perhaps the most concerning outcome of AI bans is one rarely discussed in mainstream debates: they deepen educational inequality.
Students from affluent families are simply learning to use AI outside school, often through private tutoring, subscription tools, or parental guidance. Meanwhile, pupils from disadvantaged backgrounds rely on school to provide access to digital literacy—and bans ensure they fall further behind.
We have seen this cycle before. When computer literacy became essential in the 1990s, middle-class students benefited first. When internet research skills became core to schoolwork in the 2000s, those with home broadband surged ahead.
AI literacy is following the same pattern. Banning ChatGPT at school is not “protecting education”—it is rationing opportunity.
If we continue along this path, we risk producing a generation of AI-fluent elites and AI-illiterate masses. That is not merely an educational failure; it is a social and economic one as well.
While Britain hesitates, other nations are moving swiftly to integrate AI literacy into their national curricula.
Singapore is pioneering AI education from primary school onward.
Finland has developed national AI competency training for students and adults.
South Korea is investing heavily in AI-assisted personalised learning.
The United States—even without a national education policy—has seen leading universities adopt structured AI-usage guidelines rather than bans.
These countries recognise a simple truth: AI is not going away. Students who learn to use it effectively will be the innovators, entrepreneurs, researchers, and civil servants of the next generation. Those who do not will be reliant on others who can.
If we want the UK to remain competitive, we cannot afford to teach students that emerging technologies are threats to be blocked rather than tools to be mastered.
A common argument for banning ChatGPT is that it prevents students from “doing the real thinking themselves.”
I would argue the opposite.
In many academic assessments, students are rewarded for memorising content, recalling definitions, and following formulaic essay structures. AI excels at these tasks because they are mechanistic. Yet the true hallmarks of a well-educated mind—critical reasoning, ethical analysis, multi-stage problem solving, contextual judgement—remain firmly human.
We are clinging to an outdated model of assessment rather than innovating toward a future-ready one.
Instead of banning AI, we should be asking:
How can we design assessments that require uniquely human intelligence?
This might involve:
oral examinations
reflective writing on the process of learning
collaborative projects
in-class problem-solving
assessments that integrate AI use transparently
When we modernise the way we evaluate students, AI becomes a partner in learning—not a shortcut.
An overlooked benefit of tools like ChatGPT is the support they provide to anxious or struggling students.
Many pupils fear asking “embarrassing questions” in class. AI offers a safe, judgement-free space to practise explanations, ask for clarification, or seek alternative examples.
For neurodivergent students, AI can help decode assignment briefs, simplify complex readings, or provide step-by-step breakdowns.
For international students, AI can offer linguistic support that universities often cannot provide at scale.
To strip away these supports in the name of academic purity is to misunderstand what many students need: confidence, scaffolding, and personalised help.
Used responsibly, AI does not replace teachers—it empowers learners.
Banning ChatGPT creates perverse incentives. Students either:
turn to VPNs, mirror sites, or mobile access;
rely on unregulated AI tools;
purchase subscriptions to “stealth AI” writing services; or
turn to genuine academic misconduct services (essay mills).
By driving AI use underground, institutions lose visibility and control.
If students know they will be punished for admitting AI assistance, they simply will not disclose it. Bans therefore undermine transparency, trust, and open discussion.
A better strategy is to normalise AI use under clear academic guidelines, where students can learn ethical, responsible, and well-documented usage.
Every major UK employer—from the NHS to financial services to the creative industries—is rapidly adopting AI tools. Recruiters already expect basic AI literacy, and many organisations provide in-house training.
Yet many of our educational institutions are effectively signalling to students that using such tools is “cheating.”
Imagine if we treated word processors the same way in the 1980s. Or the internet in the 1990s. Or statistical software in the 2000s.
We would have handicapped entire generations.
AI literacy is not optional. It is a basic competency for modern citizenship and employability.
Many teachers privately admit they feel unprepared for the rise of AI—a sentiment entirely understandable given the speed of change and the pressures placed upon them.
But it is unfair and counterproductive to ask teachers to enforce bans without giving them the training, resources, or time to adapt.
We should be offering professional development in:
prompt engineering
verifying AI-generated information
teaching students to critique AI outputs
designing AI-inclusive assignments
understanding AI ethics and bias
Teachers are not the obstacle. Lack of support is.
Rather than banning AI, British schools and universities should adopt a three-pillar framework.
Students declare when and how AI assisted them—just as researchers declare software tools or statistical methods.
Institutions provide clear rules distinguishing support from substitution.
Assignments evolve to emphasise human reasoning, not memorised content easily replicated by AI.
This is the model increasingly used by responsible organisations globally. It supports learning, maintains rigour, and prepares students for the world beyond the classroom.
There is a deeper civic dimension to this debate.
AI will influence media, politics, public discourse, and the ways citizens access information. If only a minority truly understand how AI works—its strengths, weaknesses, biases—our democracy becomes more vulnerable to manipulation.
Teaching AI literacy is not a luxury. It is a defence against misinformation, political polarisation, and digital disenfranchisement. A society that fears its own tools will struggle to govern them wisely.
The impulse to ban ChatGPT comes from a protective instinct. But protection achieved through restriction is rarely sustainable.
True protection comes from empowerment.
True academic integrity comes from trust and transparency.
True learning comes from curiosity, guided exploration, and engagement with the tools shaping modern life.
If the UK wants to lead—not lag—in the global knowledge economy, we must embrace the technologies defining the future. That includes teaching students how to use AI safely, critically, and creatively.
Bans may feel like control. But in reality, they surrender control to fear.
We can do better. And our students deserve better.
