Building a More Human Internet

The internet, that sprawling digital continent, once promised a boundless frontier for connection and knowledge.

In its nascent years, following the dot-com bust of the early 2000s, there was a fleeting moment of doubt, a pause where its ultimate trajectory hung in the balance.

Would it fade into technological obscurity, a fleeting fad? The answer, unequivocally, was no.

Instead, it fused with our very beings, manifesting as the smartphones in our pockets and the algorithms that parse our personalities with an intimacy that often surpasses our closest confidantes.

It has, in essence, constructed a secondary social world, a parallel universe where much of human interaction now unfolds.

Yet, as this digital realm became inextricably woven into the fabric of daily life, few would describe it as a sanctuary of love, compassion, or cooperation.

Indeed, the prevailing narrative paints a starkly different picture: one of alienation, disconnection, and a relentless tide of toxicity.

Study after study confirms what many intuitively feel – that the very architecture of popular social media platforms, driven by algorithms designed for maximum engagement, inadvertently rewards the most corrosive human impulses: trolling, cyberbullying, and outrage.

This begs a crucial question: Is the internet’s place in human history cemented as a harbinger of despair, or does hope still flicker for a digital space that genuinely supports collective flourishing?

As sociologist Aarushi Bhandari explores in her new book, “Attention and Alienation,” the current state of affairs is no accident.

It is, rather, a direct consequence of a business model that thrives on our emotional investment, our time, and our creative output.

Whether it’s meticulously filming a TikTok video or thoughtfully crafting a Reddit comment, online participation demands labor, often exhausting labor.

Even the seemingly passive act of doomscrolling through feeds or “lurking” in forums consumes precious hours.

The illusion of “free entertainment” quickly dissipates once one grasps the unsettling truth: we are not merely users; we are the product, our data harvested, our emotions subtly manipulated.

This systemic degradation, where online experiences gradually deteriorate as companies exploit user data for profit, has a name: “enshittification,” a term coined by blogger and science fiction writer Cory Doctorow.

It is a chillingly apt description of a cycle where hate and mental illness fester, precisely because love and healing appear incompatible with the relentless pursuit of profit.

But is this the only possible future for our digital lives?

A deeper look reveals pockets of resistance, examples of collective care quietly thriving amidst the algorithmic chaos.

The late sociologist Erik Olin Wright, in his 2009 work “Envisioning Real Utopias,” highlighted cooperative models that prioritize care and egalitarianism, not just offline but online too.

His prime example was Wikipedia, a digital marvel that embodies the utopian ideal: “from each according to ability, to each according to need.”

This non-profit, volunteer-run bureaucracy is a testament to what is possible when collective good supersedes individual gain.

There are no likes, no comments, no rage emojis to chase; the rewards are purely collective, a shared repository of knowledge where everyone wins.

Wikipedia is not an anomaly, but rather a blueprint for a different kind of internet.

In recent years, a quiet revolution has begun, with initiatives like Signal, an open-source messaging service, and Proton Mail, an encrypted email service, offering alternatives committed to user data protection.

These are laudable steps, yet the challenge remains: how can the internet actively promote flourishing, not merely avoid harm?

Sociologist Ruha Benjamin, in “Viral Justice: How We Grow the World We Want,” offers a compelling answer: organized user power.

The 2021 cultural labor strike by Black TikTok creators, who successfully protested algorithmic bias that suppressed their original dance content in favor of white influencers, was a watershed moment.

It demonstrated that social media engagement is indeed work, and that users, as digital laborers, possess the collective power to demand equitable conditions.

This landmark strike was a powerful reminder that the vast user bases of platforms like TikTok, X, Facebook, Instagram, and Reddit can, and should, organize.

Beyond user-led strikes, there are burgeoning movements dedicated to building a more humane internet from the ground up.

Firuzeh Shokooh Valle’s 2023 book, “In Defense of Solidarity and Pleasure: Feminist Technopolitics in the Global South“, highlights worker-owned technology cooperatives such as Sulá Batsú in Costa Rica.

This co-op is actively designing policies to dismantle the stranglehold of negativity and exploitation, envisioning an online world where “women and people of diverse sexualities and genders are able to access and enjoy a free and open internet to exercise agency and autonomy, build collective power, strengthen movements, and transform power relations.”

Similarly, Chani Inc. in Los Angeles, proudly eschewing venture capital, offers an app blending mindfulness and astrology, intentionally designed without compulsive engagement features, data selling, or even comment sections.

It’s a radical departure, prioritizing genuine well-being over endless scrolling.

These examples beg a provocative question: What if Wikipedia, with its ethos of collective contribution and absence of individualistic rewards, were the norm for social media, rather than an exception?

A significant flaw in today’s internet culture, as Bhandari argues in “Attention and Alienation,” is the way human identity is obscured.

Anonymity, while offering a veneer of freedom, often breeds contempt, allowing individuals to unleash vitriol without accountability.

It’s not true human interaction.

Bhandari envisions an internet where people can truly meet and interact as fully realized, three-dimensional human beings.

She recounts a poignant childhood memory of crying late into the night, wishing she could “see” her parents through the phone while they lived abroad.

This yearning for visual connection, for the magic of seeing a loved one’s face, resurfaced during the 2020 pandemic when her classes shifted to videoconferencing.

While imperfect, these online classes, with their structured, one-person-at-a-time discussions, hinted at a better way: people from across the world sharing the fullness of their humanity.

Early attempts like Clubhouse, with its voice-based forums, tapped into this vision, though its predatory data privacy policies quickly raised red flags.

But what if the next iteration of social media could build on this, bringing people together not just through voices, but through live video feeds, showcasing faces, expressions, the subtle nuances that make us human, all without harvesting data or promoting conflict?

Raised eyebrows, grins, frowns – these are the markers that distinguish us from the increasingly sophisticated algorithms and AI chatbots.

They are the silent language of empathy and accountability.

After all, is anything truly worth saying if you can’t say it while looking another human being in the eye?

The future of the internet, it seems, might just depend on our willingness to rediscover the profound simplicity of human connection.