This fifth post in the series Institutions, Imaginaries, and the Common Good turns to Hannah Arendt’s concepts of plurality and natality as a way of rethinking the promise of education. The series as a whole has asked how education might be reclaimed as polis, a shared space of imagination and responsibility, in a time when platforms and automation threaten to reduce learning to efficiency and optimisation. Earlier posts argued that education cannot be captured by market logics or technical systems. This post develops that claim further: education’s promise lies not in reproducing sameness, but in sustaining openness to difference, newness, and democratic plurality.

For Arendt, plurality names the basic condition of human life: we live among others, each of whom is distinct and irreducible (Arendt, 2018). This irreducible distinctness is the ground of politics and democratic responsibility. Without plurality, dialogue and judgment would be unnecessary; it is precisely because others differ from us that shared world-making becomes possible. In educational terms, plurality means recognising that learners are not interchangeable individuals progressing through pre-designed systems. They are unique beings whose voices and perspectives must be heard if education is to remain a genuinely democratic practice (Biesta, 2017).

Arendt’s second key concept, natality, extends this point. Natality refers to the human capacity to begin anew, rooted in the fact that every birth represents not only continuity but also the arrival of something unprecedented (Arendt, 2006b). Education, seen in this light, is not merely transmission of knowledge or reproduction of the social order. It is a practice of care for beginnings, nurturing the possibility of disruption, imagination, and renewal. To honour natality is to affirm education’s openness to the unexpected and its role in sustaining democratic life.

Yet the institutional and technological logics shaping education today often move in the opposite direction. Educational technologies frequently privilege standardisation and automation, promising efficiency through predictive analytics, adaptive systems, and large-scale personalisation. As Knox, Williamson and Bayne (2019) argue, such developments risk a form of “machine behaviourism,” where human learning is reduced to observable data and pre-programmed responses, narrowing the possibilities of what counts as education. This orientation risks normalising learners into predefined patterns and reducing plurality to data points. Accountability regimes built on datafication demand predictable outcomes, further constraining the scope of meaningful learning (Williamson, 2017). These pressures echo what Feenberg (1999) describes as “technical rationality”, the reduction of human practices to optimisation and control. Crucially, Feenberg also reminds us that technologies can be reappropriated and reshaped for democratic ends, underscoring that the struggle over education’s future is not predetermined.

Against this backdrop, the central claim of this post comes into view: education must resist closure and sustain openness. To frame education as polis is to see pedagogy as caring both for the inherited world and for the yet-to-be, welcoming every child as a new beginning. This means resisting tendencies toward homogenisation and defending plurality as the foundation of democratic life. In doing so, education remains faithful to its natal promise: keeping the future open to newness, difference, and collective imagination.

Hannah Arendt places natality at the centre of her political and educational thought. In The Human Condition, she writes that “with each birth a new beginning is born into the world” (Arendt, 2018, p. 9). Natality is not merely a biological fact but the fundamental human capacity to initiate, to act in ways that break with repetition and necessity. It grounds Arendt’s understanding of action, the sphere in which individuals, through words and deeds, disclose who they are and set in motion processes whose outcomes are unpredictable. Because action is made possible by natality, human life is marked by openness: the possibility of the new.

This capacity for beginning is also, for Arendt, the condition of freedom. In her essay What Is Freedom?, she insists that freedom is not an internal will or a faculty of choice but a worldly reality that appears in the space between people when something genuinely new is initiated (Arendt, 2006a). Freedom becomes visible when beginnings disrupt routine and compel collective response. Without natality, freedom would collapse into necessity; with it, freedom remains the hallmark of human affairs. Crucially, natality and plurality are intertwined. New beginnings only appear in a shared world populated by others who are equally capable of acting. Plurality ensures that natality unfolds in unpredictable and contested ways, sustaining the conditions of democratic renewal (Arendt, 2018; Canovan, 1992).

Education is where natality acquires a distinctive urgency. In The Crisis in Education, Arendt (2006b) argues that educators carry a double responsibility: they must care for the world as it is, ensuring that it remains worthy of inheritance, while also caring for newcomers whose arrival signals the possibility of renewal. Education therefore is not simply transmission or socialisation; it is stewardship of beginnings. Teachers must introduce children to the world without extinguishing their capacity to transform it. As Biesta (2013) argues, this is the “beautiful risk” of education: making space for subjectivity to emerge in ways that cannot be predicted or controlled.

To educate with natality in view means cultivating conditions where unexpected futures can arise. This requires resisting the temptation to pre-script learning outcomes or to reduce students to data points. Instead, it entails pedagogical forms that invite initiative, judgment, and responsibility. For example, inquiry-led projects in which students frame their own questions embody the unpredictability of beginnings. Studio critiques or seminar discussions that treat speech as world-disclosing acts honour the plurality of perspectives. Civic or community-facing projects situate student work in public spaces where it encounters real responses and obligations. These designs do not guarantee outcomes; rather, they preserve the openness of action and acknowledge the possibility that learners might bring something genuinely new into the world.

In this sense, natality discloses the promise of education: it is a practice of care for the world and the yet-to-be, simultaneously conserving and renewing. To attend to natality is to resist educational closures, whether bureaucratic, technological, or cultural, that seek to predetermine futures. It is to affirm education as a space where beginnings are nurtured, freedom is sustained, and the democratic life of plurality is renewed.

Hannah Arendt’s reflections on education consistently highlight its position at the intersection of past and future. In The Crisis in Education, she writes that education is the moment when “we decide whether we love the world enough to assume responsibility for it” (Arendt, 2006b, p. 193). This statement captures the dual responsibility of education: to care for the inherited world and to care for those who are new to it. Adults must safeguard the achievements, traditions, and practices that make the world durable and intelligible, while also welcoming children as newcomers whose presence signals the possibility of renewal. Education thus entails both conservation and openness, holding the tension between continuity and change.

Conservation is vital because without it, the world would disintegrate into fragments unintelligible to new generations. Arendt (2018) insists that human life depends on institutions, practices, and stories that outlast individuals, giving stability to collective life. Education preserves these so that children may inherit and judge them. At the same time, education must resist the temptation to treat conservation as an end in itself. If it only protected what exists, it would extinguish the natal capacity of each child to begin something new. The vitality of freedom lies in disruption and innovation, and education must therefore remain open to the unforeseen.

Openness to renewal requires that schools and teachers cultivate spaces in which children can appear as distinct beings, capable of initiating new possibilities. Arendt’s account of natality is crucial here: newcomers are not mere extensions of what has come before but bring something unprecedented into the world (Arendt, 2006b). Education must preserve this promise rather than foreclose it. Biesta (2013) develops this point when he describes education as a “beautiful risk.” Teachers can never fully control what students will make of the world, and attempts to guarantee outcomes, whether through rigid curricula or technological standardisation, undermine the possibility of genuine beginnings. To embrace the risk of education is to recognise that students are not simply recipients of knowledge but agents whose initiatives might reshape the world itself.

Balancing tradition and openness is not a matter of compromise but of stewardship. Schools embody this tension: they preserve a cultural inheritance while simultaneously exposing students to public forms of life that can be renewed and reconfigured. Masschelein and Simons (2013) argue that schools are precisely such public institutions, offering both access to the world and the opportunity to question it. Teachers, likewise, act as stewards who select what is worth passing on, but do so in ways that make room for plurality and unpredictability. This requires pedagogical practices that maintain continuity without scripting the future, inviting students to enter the world as both heirs and initiators.

The role of institutions in this stewardship is inherently political. Decisions about what to preserve and how to welcome newness shape the horizons of democratic life. Institutions that prioritise efficiency, accountability, and automation risk tilting the balance toward conservation understood as control, rather than as responsibility. To frame education as care for both the world and the yet-to-be is to resist such closures. It is to affirm that pedagogy is never neutral: the way teachers and institutions care for the world also determines whether the future remains open to plurality, freedom, and renewal.

For Hannah Arendt, plurality is the central condition of human affairs. She writes that “men, not Man, live on the earth and inhabit the world” (Arendt, 2018, p. 7). We are equal in our right to appear in the world, but each of us is distinct in “who” we are, irreducibly different from all others. Plurality is not merely the empirical fact of diversity but the ontological ground of politics itself. Because human beings live among others who are at once equal and different, action and speech can disclose unique identities in a shared world. It is this condition of plurality that makes possible the space of appearance where political life unfolds (Arendt, 2018; Arendt, 2006a).

Plurality is foundational to democratic life. Democracy is not sustained by institutions and procedures alone but by practices that preserve the visibility of persons, the contestability of judgments, and the responsibility that emerges when our words and deeds are exposed before others. For Arendt, freedom is never simply an interior state of choice but a worldly reality that appears when people act together in unpredictable ways (Arendt, 2006a). Plurality thus grounds dialogue, debate, and the shared responsibility for the consequences of action. Without plurality, democratic life would collapse into conformity or domination.

Education is the sphere where plurality must be nurtured if democratic life is to be sustained. In The Crisis in Education, Arendt (2006b) argues that schools are the site where children are introduced into a common world, one that is shaped by both continuity and difference. To educate is not only to transmit knowledge but to sustain the plurality of perspectives that constitute the world. Biesta (2010; 2013) reinforces this point in contemporary terms: education should not be reduced to qualification or socialisation but must make room for subjectification, the emergence of the student as a speaking and acting subject. Classrooms should therefore be designed as public spaces in which students encounter otherness, practise judgment, and learn to live with disagreement.

Plurality also requires resisting its reduction to individualised pathways or market logics. When education is framed as personalised choice, adaptive dashboards, or the maximisation of return on investment, learning risks becoming a private trajectory rather than a shared practice. Biesta (2010) critiques this as the “learnification” of education, where the focus shifts to individual performance metrics at the expense of purpose and responsibility. Brown (2015) shows how neoliberal rationalities recast citizens as homo oeconomicus, undermining democratic subjectivity by privileging competition and economic calculation. Applied to education, this logic encourages homogenisation and standardisation, eroding the plurality of voices that sustain democratic life.

To defend plurality in education is to defend the very conditions of democracy. Schools and universities must remain spaces where individuals can appear before one another, not as consumers of content but as participants in a shared and contested world. Practical examples include deliberative classroom practices where students debate public issues, collaborative projects that demand responsibility to peers, and civic engagement initiatives that place student work into dialogue with communities. Such practices treat plurality not as a problem to be managed but as the ground of democratic freedom. Linking back to natality, each new beginning acquires meaning only because it enters a world populated by others; plurality ensures that beginnings unfold in ways that are unpredictable, contested, and open. In this sense, pedagogy aligned with plurality resists closure and affirms education’s role in sustaining the openness of the democratic horizon.

Across contemporary education technology, powerful trends prioritise efficiency, standardisation, and automation. Learning analytics platforms promise to optimise instruction in real time; adaptive systems route students through personalised pathways based on predictive modelling; automated assessment tools score essays and tests at scale; online proctoring software algorithmically monitors students; dashboards compare individual performance against normative benchmarks. These developments are often promoted as neutral advances in precision and effectiveness. Yet they are driven by broader institutional pressures: the demand for measurable outcomes, the pursuit of scalability, and the need to demonstrate accountability in a competitive policy environment (Selwyn, 2016; Williamson, 2017). To understand their impact, we must move beyond description to consider what they mean for education’s promise.

As Knox, Williamson and Bayne (2019) suggest, the rise of a “machine behaviourism” risks redefining learning as the production of observable data and predictable responses. Pedagogy becomes narrowed to what can be recognised and operationalised by a model. From an Arendtian perspective, such logics strike at the heart of natality and plurality. Natality is the capacity to begin anew, to introduce the unexpected (Arendt, 2006a; 2018). Plurality is the condition of living among irreducibly different others (Arendt, 2018). Automation undermines both: learners are normalised into profiles, their distinct “who”s translated into comparable “what”s. Predictability becomes not an accidental outcome but a design principle, foreclosing the possibility of genuine beginnings.

The institutional consequences are equally troubling. Williamson (2017) shows how datafication reshapes governance, tying funding, ranking, and quality assurance to performance metrics. Biesta (2010) critiques this as the age of measurement and “learnification,” where educational purpose is reduced to what can be demonstrated by indicators. In such regimes, homogenisation becomes the norm: teaching and curricula are calibrated to platform affordances and metric comparability. Feenberg (1999) calls this the dominance of technical rationality, where optimisation and control override democratic and educational values. At a broader scale, Zuboff (2019) demonstrates how surveillance capitalism drives the design of platforms to maximise data extraction and behavioural prediction. For education, this means privileging frictionless engagement and minimising delay, precisely when educational depth often requires struggle, pause, and dialogue.

Concrete examples illustrate these dynamics. Automated essay scoring systems favour formulaic five-paragraph structures and penalise unconventional forms of expression, rewarding sameness at the expense of voice. Adaptive platforms channel learners through preset knowledge maps, restricting opportunities for inquiry-led exploration. Proctoring systems, presented as neutral safeguards, embed discriminatory biases, treating difference as deviation. Each instance reveals how homogenisation closes off renewal: novelty appears as error, plurality as variance to be reduced.

Against these pressures, Arendt’s insights reframe the stakes. If education is to honour natality, it must remain open to the unforeseen. If it is to sustain plurality, it must treat difference not as a problem to be corrected but as the very ground of democratic life. This is not an argument against technology as such. Following Feenberg (1999), technologies can be reappropriated and redesigned. The question is whether they sustain spaces where distinct persons can appear, act, and begin something new. Where platforms impose prediction, pedagogy can preserve uncertainty; where automation enforces sameness, teachers can cultivate diversity of expression and judgment. The task is not anti-technology but anti-closure: to resist designs that foreclose beginnings and difference, and to align educational technologies with the responsibility to care for a world that must remain open to renewal.

If education is to remain faithful to its promise, pedagogy must sustain openness to newness and difference. Through Arendt’s categories of natality and plurality, this means creating conditions for beginnings and for the appearance of distinct persons among others (Arendt, 2006b; 2018). Pedagogy is therefore not simply the delivery of outcomes or competencies. It is a worldly practice oriented toward freedom: a way of making space for the unexpected and recognising each learner not as a data point but as a “who” capable of initiating something new.

To sustain openness is to resist closure. Closure occurs when education is reduced to prediction, homogenisation, or efficiency, whether through technocratic designs or narrow accountability regimes. Openness, by contrast, acknowledges that education cannot be entirely controlled. Biesta (2013) describes this as the “beautiful risk” of education: teachers must accept that students will interpret, respond, and act in ways that cannot be fully scripted. This does not mean abandoning criteria or falling into relativism. Rather, as Biesta (2021) stresses, pedagogy should be world-centred: structured enough to orient students toward shared realities, yet open enough to allow their judgments and subjectivities to emerge in unpredictable ways.

Practices that cultivate attentiveness to plurality are central here. Freire’s pedagogy of dialogue positions teachers and learners as co-investigators of the world, naming and transforming reality together (Freire, 2000). bell hooks’ “engaged pedagogy” insists that classrooms are spaces of voice, presence, and mutual recognition, refusing the neutrality that erases difference (hooks, 1994). Dewey’s model of inquiry treats education as preparation for democratic life by fostering habits of deliberation and cooperative problem-solving (Dewey, 1997). Greene (2000) shows how imagination allows learners to see otherwise, expanding perspectives and possibilities. Masschelein and Simons (2013) remind us that schools, as public institutions, are designed to suspend private imperatives long enough for something common to appear. Each of these traditions reinforces Arendt’s insistence that plurality is not a problem but the very ground of democratic renewal.

Examples make this more tangible. In deliberative seminars, students co-frame questions around a public issue, practising the arts of listening, reason-giving, and revising in response to others. Such practices resist closure by valuing responsiveness rather than conformity. In studio critiques or exhibition-based assessments, students present work before peers or wider publics, encountering real responses and responsibilities. This foregrounds plurality, as difference is not treated as deviation but as the condition of dialogue. Community-engaged projects, whether civic research briefs or local design challenges, invite students to contribute to a common world, sustaining the unpredictability of how others may respond. Even at the level of assessment, “open rubrics” that specify criteria such as clarity and argument but leave space for unanticipated excellence resist the closure of automated scoring and keep room for surprise.

Institutions, no less than teachers, are stewards of such openness. When schools and universities are driven by efficiency metrics, market logics, or automated accountability, the conditions for dialogue and imagination shrink. By contrast, when institutions protect time for discussion, provide spaces for public-facing work, and value judgment alongside measurement, they honour their responsibility to sustain the yet-to-be. The test is ultimately Arendtian: do our pedagogical and institutional practices sustain a space where distinct persons can appear and initiate among others? If so, pedagogy resists closure and affirms education as a practice of care for a shared and renewable world.

To honour its promise, education must be understood as a practice of resisting closure. Closure occurs when standardising forces, technical, bureaucratic, or economic, seek to predetermine outcomes, compress judgment into metrics, and normalise learners to models of expected performance. Arendt reminds us that education is about responsibility for the world, a form of amor mundi or “love of the world,” which requires care both for what has been and for those who are new (Arendt, 2006b). To resist closure is therefore to defend education’s responsibility to keep the future open. This involves preserving conditions for natality, the capacity for new beginnings, and plurality, life among irreducibly different others (Arendt, 2006a; 2018). Education resists closure whenever it creates spaces where freedom can appear through the initiation of something unexpected.

Standardisation and automation exemplify how closure operates. Datafication reorients governance around performance indicators, narrowing what counts as valuable learning (Williamson, 2017). Platform logics privilege what is measurable and optimisable, sidelining what is not (Selwyn, 2022). Knox, Williamson and Bayne (2019) describe this trend as “machine behaviourism”: a vision that reduces learning to inputs and outputs, eroding the openness of education to difference and beginnings. From an Arendtian perspective, this diminishes the “who” of the student in favour of a comparable “what” (Arendt, 2018). More broadly, neoliberal rationalities recast citizens as homo oeconomicus, governed by competition and return on investment (Brown, 2015), while surveillance capitalism incentivises predictive systems that eliminate friction, even though friction is where dialogue and judgment take place (Zuboff, 2019). Together, these form a family of standardising logics that homogenise education: novelty is coded as error, and difference as variance to be reduced.

Resistance must be distinguished from rejection. To resist closure is not to abandon technology or institutions but to re-appropriate them for democratic ends. Feenberg (1999) stresses that technological systems are socially constructed and open to redesign. The critical question is not whether we use technology, but whether our practices sustain plurality and beginnings or foreclose them. Resistance is active: it entails shaping pedagogical and institutional arrangements so that openness is preserved.

Practically, this requires reorienting pedagogy. Deliberative seminars resist closure by assessing responsiveness and quality of reasons, not only correctness. Studio critiques and exhibitions expose student work to unpredictable publics, making room for accountability beyond the teacher. Community-engaged projects situate learners in civic contexts where responses cannot be scripted in advance. Even assessment practices can resist closure: “open rubrics” specify criteria such as clarity or coherence but leave space for unanticipated forms of excellence, contrasting sharply with automated scoring systems. In each case, resistance is not about disorder but about preserving space for dialogue, imagination, and the unforeseen.

Institutions also carry responsibility. When universities privilege efficiency and marketisation, they risk abandoning their stewardship of openness. Resistance therefore entails institutional choices: securing time for dialogue, designing with students rather than for them, protecting deliberative spaces, and embedding procedural safeguards, such as algorithmic transparency and human-in-the-loop design, that ensure technologies support rather than supplant educational judgment (Feenberg, 1999; Selwyn, 2022). These are political commitments, not technical fixes.

Reimagining pedagogy and governance in this way aligns directly with reclaiming education for the common good. The common good is not a settled consensus but an ongoing project of world-making sustained by plurality and beginnings. Education contributes when it resists being reduced to private optimisation and remains a public practice where the future is not delivered as a product but welcomed as possibility. To practise education as resistance to closure is to affirm its democratic promise: keeping the world open to renewal, so that those who come after us may inherit a world still capable of change (Arendt, 2006b; Biesta, 2013; 2021).

The promise of education, as this post has argued, lies in Arendt’s twin insights of natality and plurality. Natality reminds us that “with each birth a new beginning is born into the world” (Arendt, 2018, p. 177). Plurality reminds us that “men, not Man, live on the earth and inhabit the world” (Arendt, 2018, p. 7). Taken together, they highlight education not as reproduction of sameness but as stewardship of beginnings and difference. To educate is to introduce newcomers to a world worth inheriting while protecting their capacity to initiate something unforeseen.

Resisting closure is the way education sustains this promise. Closure occurs wherever standardisation, automation, or accountability regimes predefine outcomes and reduce students to profiles or metrics. Machine learning systems and adaptive platforms risk privileging what can be recognised by algorithms over what might appear as genuinely new (Knox, Williamson and Bayne, 2019). Datafication, as Williamson (2017) shows, ties governance and funding to indicators, narrowing what counts as valuable learning. Selwyn (2016) notes that platforms privilege measurability and optimisation, sidelining dialogue and unpredictability. For Arendt, this is a loss of the “who” in favour of a comparable “what,” eroding the public space where freedom and plurality can appear (Arendt, 2006a; 2018).

Philosophically, education’s resistance to closure entails affirming that freedom is a worldly capacity, made visible when people act and speak in ways that cannot be predicted in advance. Biesta (2013) calls this the “beautiful risk” of education: a willingness to accept that subjectivity cannot be engineered but only encountered. His later call for “world-centred education” reinforces the point: teachers and students turn together toward matters that address them, guided by criteria that hold open the possibility of surprise (Biesta, 2021). Arendt’s amor mundi, love of the world, captures this dual task: care for what has been entrusted to us, and care for the new arrivals whose presence signals the possibility of renewal (Arendt, 2006b).

Politically, the stakes are high. Brown (2015) shows how neoliberalism remakes citizens into homo oeconomicus, narrowing subjectivities to competitive calculation. Zuboff (2019) demonstrates how surveillance capitalism constructs architectures that aim to predict and shape behaviour, minimising the very frictions where dialogue and judgment occur. Together, these logics undermine the plurality on which democratic life depends. To defend educational spaces where difference can appear is therefore to defend democracy itself.

Practically, pedagogy is where resistance is enacted. Deliberative seminars resist closure by valuing responsiveness and the quality of reasons rather than predetermined answers. Studio critiques and public exhibitions expose student work to unpredictable audiences, affirming plurality. Community projects situate learners in civic contexts where outcomes cannot be scripted. Even assessments can resist closure: “open rubrics” that specify criteria while leaving space for unanticipated excellence contrast with automated scoring systems that reward conformity. These practices embody Arendt’s conviction that education must protect beginnings and plurality, even amid pressures for control.

Anticipating the next post in this series, we must ask how institutions can embody these commitments. Education as polis requires governance and infrastructures that align with natality and plurality: evaluation systems that reward judgment as well as measurement; technological arrangements that are transparent, revisable, and accountable; institutional cultures that secure time for dialogue and public work. The common good is not a fixed consensus but an ongoing project of world-making. Education contributes when it resists closure, sustains openness to the yet-to-be, and ensures that the world remains capable of renewal by those who come after us.

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