“Your iPhone contains almost everything about you, yet Siri has never been able to use all of that information when you need it,” read the New York Times Wirecutter newsletter.
A bit of a tech expert, my sister’s husband always compared Apple’s voice assistant to some AI version of James Bond, or worse.
I blocked Siri immediately.
“She is like the big fake sister who is always listening in,” Orwell would have probably written.
The rest of the NYT article read, “That is about to change. Today, the company announced that Siri is turning into an AI assistant that can use everything on your device to answer questions and complete tasks on your behalf.”
Sounds like a great spy secretary.
I personally do not document everything using my iPhone. We also know that free webmail services like Hotmail or Gmail are fine, but are similar to having a conversation at a French café.
You know, where the tables are so close together that your ‘private’ conversations can be overheard by that strange, grey-haired lady wearing a hat, who has a teckel dog sitting next to her, and you.
Partly because of high tech, the outside world feels like it is always on the move, and it always feels like someone is watching you.
That woman at the beach or in the mall has her iPhone pointed at something, but what, or who? The sunrise? A shop? A selfie with her savoury sweets? Are we in the background of this stranger’s capture, like an unwanted extra in her documentary?
Perhaps that explains the sudden nostalgia for the ‘90s, even among those who never even experienced it. Even kids binge-watch shows set in cities like New York during those days.
Back when there was not the feeling that a big brother was watching you, a cell phone was a luxury reserved for the car and looked like a fridge compared to the smartphone we have now, and there was a slower cultural turnover. No algorithms telling you what you should read or buy.
I decided to stop reading, start driving and turn on the radio instead. BBC World Service. They are interviewing a billionaire in his early fifties from Zanzibar who speaks with a Swahili accent. He sounds as if he is a man in his late seventies sharing his two cents, or his billion dollars, with young entrepreneurs.
The Zanzibari became rich by “following the money”, understanding the needs of people who had $25 to spend on a daily basis and meeting those needs. He diversified his business.
“I wish I had spent more quality time with my family instead of chasing the money,” he also said when asked if he had any regrets.
I enter the elevator at work and my two Omani colleagues compliment me on the shiny stones on the sleeves of my dress. I complimented one back about her sparkling shoes with high heels and the other one about the bright colour of her abaya. We all laugh and feel warm.
A little bit later, one of my other Omani colleagues stopped at the entrance of my office door. I should have stood up as per tradition, but was typing something using my keyboard instead. She told me that she loved me, though. So Omani.
Regrets. Nostalgia. My mother always said that all of this is not a dress rehearsal. I wrote it down, even on the frame of a mirror, long before I came to realise what it meant.
You better Google it. Or ask Siri while she is still your fake friend.
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