Situatie
Few companies embody design excellence and technological prestige like Apple. Sleek, seamless, and undeniably influential, Apple’s products have defined a generation of consumer electronics. Yet behind the elegant aluminum and glass lies a controversial truth — Apple has become one of the most restrictive forces against the Right to Repair.
When Apple first introduced its iPhone lineup, customers marveled at the innovation. Over time, though, many realized that fixing even minor issues—like a cracked screen or a worn-out battery—was nearly impossible without going through Apple’s tightly controlled repair ecosystem. The company’s devices are deliberately sealed, using proprietary screws, software pairing, and component serialization that block third-party repairs or even self-repairs.
Independent technicians and repair shops have long struggled with Apple’s repair authorization program, which demands high fees, strict inspections, and limits on what parts can be used. A genuine part installed by a skilled technician can still trigger warnings such as “Unable to verify this iPhone has a genuine display”. These software locks effectively punish users who choose independent repair — even if the part came directly from another identical iPhone.
Apple’s argument has always revolved around safety, quality, and user security. The company insists that unauthorized repairs could pose risks, from damaged batteries to compromised biometric sensors like Touch ID or Face ID. However, critics counter that Apple’s restrictions are less about safety and more about control—control over pricing, supply chains, and the entire lifecycle of its devices.
YouTube channels like Louis Rossmann and Hugh Jeffreys have exposed how arbitrary some of Apple’s barriers really are. In one example, two identical iPhones—both functional—had their screens swapped. Immediately, both phones displayed “non-genuine part” errors, even though each screen was 100 % Apple-made. This illustrates the extent to which Apple ties components to serial numbers in its database, enforcing dependence on its service centers.
The consequences of this ecosystem reach beyond inconvenience. They touch on environmental and ethical dimensions. Apple’s marketing emphasizes sustainability and recycled materials, yet restricting repairs drives consumers toward premature device replacement. This creates electronic waste — a direct contradiction of the company’s green image.
Pressure from the Right to Repair movement has started to make dents in Apple’s walls. The company recently launched its Self Service Repair program, allowing users to rent official tools and buy genuine parts online. But many critics describe it as a half-measure: the program is cumbersome, expensive, and heavily dependent on Apple’s approval process. Some argue it was designed more to silence regulators than to empower users.
The broader debate around Apple’s repair policies isn’t just about fixing phones — it’s about digital ownership. When a customer pays €1 200 for a device, they should have the freedom to open, repair, or modify it. Yet Apple’s ecosystem treats ownership more like a long-term lease, where users are custodians, not true owners.
In the end, Apple stands as both a technological pioneer and a symbol of a growing problem: innovation that isolates. As more countries adopt Right to Repair laws, the pressure will mount for Apple to align its actions with its public image. True innovation should empower, not restrict — and repairability is a fundamental part of that promise.
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