When I was a child, watching a movie was not a matter of clicking a button and waiting three seconds for a streaming service to obey your command.
There was no “video on demand.” There was no endless digital catalogue floating in the ether.
If you wanted to watch a film, you had to leave the house.
You went to a store.
A real place with shelves and carpets and fluorescent lights where plastic cases lined the walls and every Friday evening half the neighborhood seemed to be browsing through the same collection of films. You picked a cassette, your parents took it to the counter, paid a few coins, and then the sacred object was carried home like a small treasure.
The deal was simple.
You had the movie for a day or two.
Then you returned it.
That was entertainment technology in the ancient times.
But the interesting part of that experience was not the technology. It was the boundaries. Every video store had a section children were not allowed to enter. The adult section. The mysterious corner of the shop where curtains sometimes hung and where the covers looked very different from the cheerful cartoons and adventure movies we were used to.
Naturally, children were curious.
Children are always curious about the one place they are not supposed to go. We tried to sneak a look whenever we could. A glance past the shelf. A quick peek while no one was watching.
But it rarely worked.
Because parents were watching.
They stood nearby while we picked our movies. They decided what went into the basket and what did not. They made sure that what came home in the plastic rental case was appropriate for our age.
That responsibility belonged to them.
Of course there were exceptions. There are always exceptions in any society. Somewhere there was always a parent who did not particularly care what their children watched. Somewhere there was a kid who got exposed to things far too early.
But those cases were unusual.
They were frowned upon.
The social expectation was clear: parents paid attention. Parents were responsible for their children. Parents acted as the filter between young minds and the vast, sometimes unpleasant catalog of human entertainment.
My parents certainly did.
And that, inconveniently for modern sensibilities, is the same principle that should govern the internet.
Today we have replaced the video store with an infinitely larger digital universe. The shelves never end. The content never sleeps. Every conceivable piece of information, entertainment, nonsense, brilliance, and filth sits a few taps away from anyone holding a smartphone.
It is an extraordinary technological achievement.
It is also a chaotic environment.
Children navigating that environment without guidance are essentially wandering through the largest video store in human history—except this one has no walls, no closing time, and no bored clerk sitting behind the counter.
Which means the old rule becomes even more important, not less.
Parents must do the filtering.
When my children were small, my wife and I clamped down hard on what they could access. Devices were limited. Filters were installed. Screen time was monitored. Not because we believed ourselves to be tyrants, but because young children require boundaries the way plants require fences.
Freedom without structure is not freedom.
It is neglect.
Now that they are almost adults, the situation has naturally changed. The fences have come down somewhat. They have more autonomy, more access, more independence.
But that freedom is accompanied by something else.
Communication.
We talk to them about the internet. About manipulation, propaganda, addictive algorithms, and the darker corners of digital culture. They understand the dangers because they have been explained rather than hidden.
That process—restriction when they are young, conversation when they grow older—is what responsible parenting looks like in the digital age.
What it does not look like is handing that responsibility to governments.
Governments have many talents, but subtle judgment about childhood development is not among them. Bureaucracies operate with blunt instruments. Regulations tend to expand. And once authorities acquire the power to decide what content children may or may not see, the temptation to extend that authority further is rarely resisted.
Soon the boundary no longer concerns only children.
It concerns everyone.
The principle, therefore, is simple.
Children need protection from material they are not ready to handle. That protection should come from the people who know them best and care about them most.
Their parents.
Just as it did in those old video stores where a curious child tried to sneak a glance past a forbidden shelf while a watchful mother or father stood nearby, ready to steer them back toward the cartoons.
The technology has changed.
The responsibility has not.