“Technology is nothing. What’s important is that you have faith in people, that they’re basically good and smart.”
– Steve Jobs (1955-2011), American entrepreneur, inventor, and business magnate, best known as the co-founder of Apple Inc.
AH, the telephone! The first one I knew was a dreadful, black contraption that had ten eyes numbered one to zero. When I was a boy back in the 1960s, it was not something one handled lightly. Telephones belonged to serious people – government officers, businessmen, or those with more money than common sense. The rest of us communicated perfectly well by shouting from one end of the road to the other or passing messages through anyone willing to walk.
I had no use for such terrifying equipment. Life was far too busy for that sort of distraction – football to lose, books to get lost in, and my father’s patience to test whenever I needed pocket money (which was always). Being at boarding school, I was perpetually broke, so unless the telephone could be persuaded to spit out coins, I wasn’t interested.
Then came the day. It was 1968, and I was sixteen, skinny, and convinced the universe revolved around football and fried ‘bee hun’ from the canteen. A breathless classmate ran to tell me the principal wanted to see me in his office. Naturally, I assumed I was doomed. Only the day before, I’d shattered one of his prized flowerpots with a misdirected football. My fair-weather friends with whom I was playing vanished faster than the ball had flown. I might as well have been standing alone at my own funeral.
Anyway, I trudged to the principal’s office like a man heading to the gallows. I knocked meekly and croaked, “Sir, you wanted to see me?” He looked up, said nothing, and simply pointed to this monstrous black box on his desk. He said, “Someone wants to speak to you,” and walked out – abandoning me to face the black, shiny beast alone.
I stared at it. It stared back. Finally, I picked it up like someone defusing a bomb and pressed one end to my ear just like I saw some people did. Silence. Perhaps, I thought, you needed to whisper some secret password to make it work.
“Hello,” I tried, just as the principal reappeared, shaking his head. He took it from me, flipped it over, and said, “You’re supposed to talk into this end.” I had been addressing the poor phone backwards, speaking into the earpiece. I could have died right there from shame.
When I finally held it correctly and mumbled a weak “Hello?”, a booming voice nearly knocked me off my feet. “It’s your Uncle Ronald!” he roared.
I almost dropped the handset. It was like having a ghost yell into your ear. Uncle Ronald wanted to send me some money for a boat ticket so I could visit him in Sibu during the holidays. This, of course, was a noble gesture, but at that moment I was mostly trying to remember how to breathe while talking to a piece of furniture.
Eventually, after some nodding, stammering, and saying “Yes, Uncle” far too many times, the ordeal ended. I did visit him later during the school holiday and had a lovely holiday – but frankly, my biggest achievement that year was surviving my first phone call without collapsing from embarrassment.
Fast forward to today, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that a rectangular overlord rules my life. It’s like a tiny, glowing dictator with a glass screen, demanding my attention at all hours. The smartphone has conquered all aspects of my existence, and I don’t even remember when I signed up for this modern-day oppression. I despise it, yet I can’t part with it.
Let’s begin with the notifications. Every ding sends me scrambling for the phone, convinced it’s something important. Spoiler alert: it never is. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, it’s a message from some app I don’t even recall installing, cheerfully informing me about a sale on something I’ll never buy. “Get 20 per cent off on scented candles!” it screams one time, as if my life depends on the aromatic fumes of lavender wax. I don’t even like candles.
Then there’s social media. Ah, the vast, maddening circus of self-promotion, humblebrags, and unsolicited opinions. Back in the 1960s, nobody cared what you had for lunch. Now, people take pictures of everything they eat, slap on a filter, and post it online for validation. “Look at my laksa!” they proclaim, as though it’s the only food worth eating.
I tried to join in once, but my photograph of a humble bowl of porridge received exactly three likes – two of which were from bots. Clearly, I’m not cut out for this world of digital culinary showboating.
And don’t even get me started on texting. Back in the day, we wrote letters. Proper letters, mind you, with pen and paper. It was a thoughtful process. You’d sit down, carefully choose your words, and pour your heart out. Now? It’s all emojis and abbreviations.
People no longer write “I love you”. They send a heart emoji followed by a smiley face and a dancing penguin. What am I supposed to infer from that? Is the penguin a metaphor for eternal devotion, or is it just there because it’s cute? Communication has become a cryptic puzzle, and I’m too old for this nonsense.
And the autocorrect? Oh, don’t get me started. It’s a menace, lurking in the shadows, waiting to humiliate you at every turn. Just last week, I tried texting an acquaintance, “Have a great day!” What did my phone send instead? “Have a grape day!” Now the guy thinks I’m obsessed with fruit. It’s a small betrayal, but it stings all the same.
Of course, the smartphone isn’t just a device anymore. It’s my calendar, my alarm clock, my camera, my map, my weather forecaster, my bank, and occasionally, my therapist. Yes, I’ve taken to Googling my problems. Feeling tired? Google says I might be dying. Hungry? A guy on YouTube suggests ‘nasi lemak’ because the ‘sambal’ is awesome.
Oh, and let’s not forget the apps. There’s an app for everything these days. Want a pizza? There’s an app for that. Want to meditate? There’s an app for that, too. I downloaded a fitness app once. It kept sending me passive-aggressive reminders: “You’ve only walked 500 steps today. Are you even trying?” I deleted it out of spite and immediately felt better.
But the most ridiculous thing about smartphones, in my opinion, is the voice assistant. It’s supposed to make my life easier. In reality, it’s a glorified know-it-all with an attitude problem. Once, I asked it to set an alarm for 7 am. It responded with, “Setting alarm for 7 pm.” PM! What kind of sadist sets an alarm for the evening?
And yet, despite all this, I can’t seem to put the blasted thing down. It’s always there, in my pocket or on the table, glowing faintly like some cursed artefact from a fantasy novel. I’ve tried to resist its siren call, but it’s a losing battle. Even when I’m not using it, I find myself reaching for it just to check if I’ve missed something. It’s like having an invisible leash around my neck, tugging me back whenever I try to escape.
The irony, of course, is that the smartphone was supposed to make life easier. It was supposed to save time, connect us with loved ones, and give us access to unlimited knowledge. And it does, to some extent. But it’s also turned us into a society of screen-addicted zombies, shuffling through life with our eyes glued to tiny, glowing rectangles. We’re more connected than ever, and yet, somehow, more disconnected.
I often think back to that day in 1968, when I first encountered the telephone. It was a terrifying experience, yes, but at least it was straightforward. You picked up the receiver, said hello, and had a conversation. There were no apps, no notifications, no autocorrect mishaps. Just a simple, honest exchange of words.
It was a simpler time, and while I wouldn’t trade my smartphone for a black rotary dial, I can’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia for those days when life wasn’t ruled by a glowing screen.
As I sit here, staring at my smartphone, I wonder what the future holds. Will the phones get even smarter? Will they start making decisions for us? Will they develop personalities and start arguing with us? Knowing my luck, I’ll end up with a phone that’s even more sarcastic than I am. It’ll probably refuse to send my texts unless I use proper grammar, or worse, it’ll start critiquing my choice of emojis.
But until that day comes, I’ll continue to live under the rule of my smartphone overlord, forever torn between love and loathing. It’s a complicated relationship, but hey, isn’t that what life is all about?
And with that, I should probably wrap this up. My phone just pinged, and it’s probably another urgent notification about scented candles. After all, I wouldn’t want to miss out on 20 per cent off lavender wax.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
