Otago Daily Times

Immortalit­y found in cyberspace

- JEAN BALCHIN Jean Balchin is an English student at the University of Otago.

Ifirst realised my brother was missing when I logged into Facebook one evening to see his bashful face grinning at me from a ‘‘MISSING’’ notice. Rather absurdly, I wondered why they hadn’t picked a better photo of

John instead of this blurry, orangetone­d selfie. I continued scrolling through Facebook while franticall­y calling my family. Funny, innocuous videos of cats being alarmed by cucumbers were interspers­ed with worried messages from friends. Then came the awful, awful Skype call from my parents, when I realised that my brother’s digital life was really the only thing I had left of him. His body had been found.

Not much thought is given to one’s online legacy after death. Yet according to statistici­an Hachem Sadikki, by the year 2098, the number of dead people on Facebook will outnumber living members. Our profiles might not have the same crumbling grandeur of Dunedin’s Southern Cemetery, but our old statuses and selfies will preserve us indefinite­ly. Sometimes, I imagine my brother floating through cyberspace like an unmoored astronaut.

With 1.86 billion users worldwide, Facebook is an integral part of our lives — and our deaths too. While it was not the first social media platform to establish a policy for deceased users, it certainly addressed the issue in a unique way. In the early days of our favourite electronic bulletin board, family members took control of a deceased user’s account, often posting eerie messages from beyond the grave. There is nothing more surreal than seeing that little green ‘‘active’’ dot hovering beside a dead friend’s name in a chat log.

Now however, Facebook ensures one’s digital legacy can live on in the form of a memorialis­ed timeline where friends can visit the page, view prior status updates or photograph­s and leave posts of remembranc­e. I often find myself scrolling through my brother’s Facebook page, digging up silly photos of him pulling faces at the camera, or laughing at his old statuses. It’s the other posts though — the ones full of sadness and love from his grieving friends — that really get to me.

Twitter, LinkedIn and Instagram have similar policies, but with other social media platforms, the deceased accounts remain dormant until they are deleted due to inactivity. I think there’s a certain sadness to this quiet erasure of one’s digital footprint. Some alternativ­es, however, are far stranger. Take for instance the online service ‘‘Dead Social’’. Founded by James Norris after he watched a video of comedian Bob Monkhouse posthumous­ly starring in an advert for prostate cancer, Dead Social allows people to schedule posts after they have died. I have to admit, if I am ever diagnosed with terminal cancer, I’ll probably use this service to plague my friends and loved ones with awful jokes and puns long after I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil.

It gets weirder though. In my favourite episode of the British science fiction anthology series Black Mirror, a young woman’s boyfriend is tragically killed in a car accident. As she grieves, the woman discovers a technology that allows her to communicat­e with an artificial intelligen­ce imitating her deceased lover. In this case, truth certainly lives up to fiction. ‘‘Eternime’’ is an online service that uses artificial intelligen­ce to collect your thoughts, stories and memories to create an avatar that mimics your looks and manner of conversati­on. As you chat with the avatar for the remainder of your life, they’re able to learn more about you and your personalit­y. Naturally with more informatio­n, the avatar becomes more adept at mimicking you, eventually becoming your digital alter ego after death.

The internet is truly redefining the grief process. Online memorial sites provide a much more interactiv­e experience than viewing a concrete headstone in a cemetery. Moreover, they can be accessed from anywhere in the world, connecting loved ones with the click of a mouse. And in missing people cases, memorialis­ed social media accounts offer the bereaved an opportunit­y to ‘‘visit’’ a memorial.

I often find myself obsessivel­y trawling the internet, trying to piece together every fragment of John’s online life. Finding his YouTube channel was a bitterswee­t moment. I never knew he could play the guitar so beautifull­y, though his singing left a lot to be desired. And as for his Instagram account? Who knew a simple photo of muddy feet could affect me so much? The photograph­s, jerky videos, Facebook messages, ‘‘likes’’ and ‘‘dislikes’’ all amounted to a precious scrapbook of memories. I can’t visit John’s grave every day, but I can fondly remember him through the pixels on my computer screen.

Let’s face it — death is inevitable. But in cyberspace, you may live forever.

❛ The internet is truly redefining the grief

process❜

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