{shortcode-fdd227f97dc8d5892dcf51cb57cd10bbe4acd0d2}

An average section: We meet in a small, windowless room and sit uncomfortably close to people whose names we have to relearn each week. We take out our laptops, which aren’t necessary for class but which will keep us occupied with other tasks. At some point during the hour (which feels like a century), the teaching fellow asks if there are any questions. No one responds. If the TF is kind enough — and experienced enough to know that there always are questions to be asked — they will offer a familiar reassurance.

“There is no such thing as a stupid question.”

That’s where they would be wrong. Stupid questions exist; I have them all the time. They’re questions which are easily answerable, either by intuition, simple logic, or perhaps your TF.

The internet age and the recent rise of AI have rendered that many more questions easily answerable — in other words, “stupid” and not worth asking. Now, even the most complex math equation or convoluted ethical dilemma can be answered with a flurry of fingers and a single click. (ChatGPT can tell you what the meaning of life is.)

That every question — no matter how niche, complicated, or surprising it may be — has a plausible, easily accessible answer has driven us to silence, detracting us from even posing these seemingly silly questions.

I’ve witnessed this shift towards self-censorship first-hand. In high school, with no devices in class, I recall engaging with my classmates and teachers on even the most seemingly silly of questions. At Harvard, I’ve found that most people don’t seem to speak in section unless they have something they think is worth saying. This makes for long periods of silence, both uncomfortable and unproductive, in what should be a dynamic classroom environment.

I am not suggesting that students should suddenly start sharing their deepest, unfiltered thoughts with the class or flood discussions with simple informational questions. I’m merely asking that we reframe our conception of a question’s “worth,” and make this value determination independent of how easily said question could be answered by ChatGPT.

Our reliance on AI answers has effects beyond quieter sections. It does not allow for analytical reasoning or for the kind of frustration that eventually leads us to knowledge, along with the satisfaction of independently finding the answer. Technology doesn’t just give us the answers — in a way, it also allows us to choose them to build echo chambers around ourselves. We can selectively read the millions of results that come with each internet query, choosing the ones which most affirm our current beliefs. We can’t do that so easily with an answer given by another individual, in conversation with them.

This trend of not asking the stupid questions — which may not even be so stupid after all — is in this sense counter to Harvard’s recent initiatives around open inquiry, civil discourse, and academic freedom. Take Dean Rakesh Khurana’s intellectual vitality initiative, which aims to facilitate the free exchange of ideas on campus. If we students hesitate to ask even the smallest of questions, even in an intimate learning environment like section, then how can we ever expect to have the difficult but necessary conversations about the world that Harvard so prizes?

Asking the stupid questions is, therefore, an essential step in establishing an environment conducive to discourse across the aisle and free expression. Asking these questions is also a way of combating the epidemic of inattention that students are facing. As we sit in section passively listening to our TFs, comforted by the fact that AI’s magical answers will always be there in a pinch, we unconsciously surrender to the sirens that are our computer screens. An easy way to keep ourselves engaged is to contribute to the discussion, and an easy way to do that is by asking questions to our instructors and peers. Be they stupid or smart, every question is valuable.

Embracing the stupid questions will not come naturally. It might even seem counterintuitive to learning and discourse. However, doing so will disrupt our increasing reliance on AI for the instant answers it gives us. Stupid questions may lead to smart discussions, and asking them opens the door for the human-on-human dialectic you’ll never get from one-sided interactions with AI chatbots. They may also serve the teaching staff by illuminating misunderstandings — no matter how trivial — we would otherwise suppress. And they will allow us learners to sit with the discomfort of not knowing for a couple of seconds longer, our curiosity not immediately quelled by an instantaneous search result.

Next time there’s a pause in section, consider heeding the age-old urging of our teachers and ask that question. It may not be so stupid after all.

Olga Kerameos ’27, a Crimson Editorial editor, is a Social Studies concentrator in Mather House.