I arrived at a “screen-free” event in February on my high horse. The premise was suspiciously simple and hardly groundbreaking: Attendees were instructed to disconnect from their devices for the evening at Bar Spectre in Tanjong Pagar, in order to connect with others in the room.
There was even a hefty deck of prompt cards on each table, sorted into three levels of vulnerability, to spark engaging conversations and keep phones out of sight.
But the event – part of a campaign by final-year students from NTU’s Wee Kim Wee School of Communication and Information to encourage healthier smartphone habits – was only three hours long. That’s like sitting for an exam. Which we had all done before. Without a smartphone.
How hard could this be?
My table companion may as well have been handed a death sentence. It was only upon arriving that she realised it was a phone-free event – despite the clear instructions on the invite I assume she had personally RSVPed to.
Mildly hyperventilating, she asked the table whether she should announce on Instagram Stories that she would be uncontactable for the next three hours. It would help people know she doesn’t hate them just because she hasn’t replied to their texts, she blurted out, close to tears.
I was highly entertained by her Oscar-worthy impression of a smartphone or social media addict (often synonymous), until someone at the table advised earnestly: Yes, posting an Instagram Story is a good idea. Hey, don’t worry, you’ll be fine.
You’re kidding me. This was a real crisis?
The woman seemed more unmoored by the second, though I wasn’t sure what exactly she’d lost control over. Her grip on reality? Her sense of self? All of the above?
I just knew I had to escape to another table before my face betrayed me.
You know what they say: The higher the horse, the harder the fall.
It wasn’t just her behaviour that left me blindsided, although witnessing an apparently older millennial fall apart at the thought of not checking her phone for a few hours certainly smashed generational stereotypes.
Rather, her genuine floundering upended my smug belief that smartphone “addiction” was mere hyperbole, little more than Luddite fearmongering, as though this addiction was simply a lack of willpower rather than a mental health condition – despite increasing evidence to the contrary.
The event saw around 25 attendees, most university students in their early 20s. (Photo: The Black Mirror SG)
For one, the Institute of Mental Health last year published the results of a study conducted among Singaporeans aged 15 to 65 on the extent of problematic smartphone use.
Problematic smartphone use was defined in terms of dependence and excessive time spent on devices, as well as the problems caused, including feeling restless or fretful without one’s phone. It’s also linked to mental health issues, such as depression, anxiety and insomnia.
About one-third of respondents were found to have problematic smartphone use, with those aged 15 to 34 showing the highest rates of such behaviour.
In fact, the findings inspired the students’ campaign, aptly titled The Black Mirror SG, because the project group and their peers also struggle with problematic smartphone use.
One group member, Goh Chiang Yang, said his highest daily screen time was recorded during the summer holidays when he had nothing planned. It was “something like 19 hours”, the 25-year-old shared candidly. He even kept his phone with him in the toilet.
His peers, most in their early 20s, tend to average around seven to eight hours of screen time daily, affecting their relationships.
Naturally, the ironic loss of real-life social connection to social media, compounded by lingering pandemic isolation, has fuelled a growing appetite for “offline” experiences globally – particularly popular conversation card games that cultivate an otherwise elusive intimacy.
Yet I remained unconvinced by the romanticism of IRL interactions sans smartphone. Ignoring your phone doesn’t mean you’ll feel engaged or deeply connected with present company. You could still be thinking about your phone, even experiencing phantom vibrations.
The more significant gift – which most people urging others to unplug tend to overlook – was a lesson in being uncomfortable.
The thought of socialising with strangers alone is enough to give any introvert nightmares for a week. Doing it without the security blanket of a smartphone to the rescue when things get too overwhelming? A fate worse than death.
But I was also a journalist. And a slightly masochistic one at that.
So, of course, I found myself at a new table with people I couldn’t possibly have anything in common with: Gen Zs born from 2000. These kids were barely alive when I was sitting for my Primary School Leaving Examination (PSLE).
No matter. Maybe the conversation cards would actually create a true sense of connection – or at least an open-mindedness I clearly needed after literally fleeing from the woman who wanted to announce her three-hour digital disappearance on Instagram Stories.
Perhaps it was the explicit intention of the event or the participants it drew. What could’ve felt like an obligatory corporate team-bonding activity was instead enlivened by a sense of refreshing curiosity.
Except for CNA Lifestyle's Grace Yeoh (top left), everyone in this photo was born from 2000. (Photo: The Black Mirror SG)
That night, we tackled questions few people would’ve dared ask in a typical first interaction: What is an unpopular opinion that you would defend to death? What’s one thing you love about yourself? When was the last time you cried?
I learnt that one of my table companions and his peers couldn’t relate to the entitled Gen Z stereotype. They were hungry for opportunities and understood the sacrifices it would take to achieve their ambitions.
Another, who arrived late due to his hectic internship in consulting, lit up when he spoke about his passion for his job. He remained unfazed when I tried to dash his idealism with my jaded millennial sensibilities. (My bad. I should’ve known better than to kill a unicorn.)
Someone else loved that she was a kind person in situations when other people usually wouldn’t be or when there was little reason to be.
And another person said she loved her spontaneity and willingness to try anything – like showing up to the event alone just to support a friend, who was in the project group.
Even though conversation occasionally dipped, we didn’t retreat to our phones like we’d usually do. We sat in silence – an unspoken understanding to resume the discussion after everyone had a moment to decompress.
In the end, our table’s conversation overran the stipulated three hours. And no one had “phubbed” – the act of ignoring the people around you to pay attention to your phone.
“A lot of people expressed that they thought about their phones a lot at the start of the event, because they felt very uncomfortable being away from their phones for so long,” Charlotte Ang, 23, a member of the project group, later shared.
“But with the help of our conversation cards and just being in the presence of other humans, they began to enjoy this liberating experience of not being answerable to their text messages, not feeling that compulsion to open and scroll social media when the conversation is getting awkward or if there’s a lapse in conversation.”
The group created cards with conversation prompts - without the help of ChatGPT, they said - that were categorised into three levels of vulnerability. (Photo: The Black Mirror SG)
It is often believed that most addictions stem from a compulsion to avoid something rather than a desire to seek something else. Until that evening, I’d assumed a smartphone addiction was a way to avoid boredom and responsibilities. But that now feels like an oversimplification.
Unlike palatable narratives on social media, real life is rarely black and white. Maybe this addiction – this need for an instant escape from reality – is, at its core, about avoiding the difficulty of handling complexity.
And if social media is the opiate of the masses, then I was ill.
The woman who couldn’t fathom being phone-free for a few hours may have displayed obvious signs of smartphone or social media addiction.
But the more insidious signs could only be seen in the mirror: Concluding from a stranger’s split-second behaviour that she is but a self-important influencer; a funny anecdote in your WhatsApp debriefs to friends after the night.
Believing you’re different – no, better – than someone seemingly desperate for constant access to online validation, depths to which you’d never sink.
Closing yourself off to the conflicting multitudes that possibly exist in a person because you’ve made up your mind about them based on their persona.
“I feel like most of the time on social media, the opinion is given to you before you have time to form an opinion. It becomes like an echo chamber and everyone has herd mentality,” echoed another group member, Joan Ang.
The 23-year-old added that she often realises “no one has really done any research beyond what they see online” when she talks to people in real life about certain issues.
“Everyone’s opinions are the same. Then you realise everyone has just been taking the opinion that they’ve been fed.”
To be clear, The Black Mirror SG campaign isn’t suggesting a return to the Stone Age or forgoing social media entirely.
“Being able to spend time offline is actually a luxury, especially in Singapore, where the culture expects you to be contacted 24/7. (But) there needs to be this equilibrium,” added Chiang Yang.
“Unfortunately, you have to be online because our services are online, news outlets are transitioning online. To live a life completely off the grid or private is difficult, (especially if) you’re doing it by yourself.”
But neither do I believe the main purpose of disconnecting is to connect with other people. It is, more broadly, about doing the hard work of actual thought.
For everything smartphones and social media have given, they have taken as much, perhaps more. The way I see it, a smartphone or social media addiction is an addiction to utmost convenience.
Having access to the world’s biggest library within milliseconds offers a panacea for the necessary labour of questioning our biases and feelings; deciding our own beliefs and values; building relationships with people, not personas – and, quite simply, being human.
It's easier to trawl TikTok or YouTube whenever I need a perspective on a cultural trend, turn to a chronically online heuristic to describe a complex world issue, or rely on ChatGPT to add nuance to my articles. And believe me, I am always tempted to abandon good old-fashioned thinking.
Just like it would've been easier to scroll through social media whenever there was a lull in conversation during the evening, instead of wrack my brain for something to say or learn to sit in completely normal silence.
But in the era of excessive ease, the difficulty of a process is often why I trust it. The effort is the point.
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There was even a hefty deck of prompt cards on each table, sorted into three levels of vulnerability, to spark engaging conversations and keep phones out of sight.
But the event – part of a campaign by final-year students from NTU’s Wee Kim Wee School of Communication and Information to encourage healthier smartphone habits – was only three hours long. That’s like sitting for an exam. Which we had all done before. Without a smartphone.
How hard could this be?
My table companion may as well have been handed a death sentence. It was only upon arriving that she realised it was a phone-free event – despite the clear instructions on the invite I assume she had personally RSVPed to.
Mildly hyperventilating, she asked the table whether she should announce on Instagram Stories that she would be uncontactable for the next three hours. It would help people know she doesn’t hate them just because she hasn’t replied to their texts, she blurted out, close to tears.
I was highly entertained by her Oscar-worthy impression of a smartphone or social media addict (often synonymous), until someone at the table advised earnestly: Yes, posting an Instagram Story is a good idea. Hey, don’t worry, you’ll be fine.
You’re kidding me. This was a real crisis?
The woman seemed more unmoored by the second, though I wasn’t sure what exactly she’d lost control over. Her grip on reality? Her sense of self? All of the above?
I just knew I had to escape to another table before my face betrayed me.
WHEN SOCIAL MEDIA AFFECTS SOCIAL INTERACTIONS
You know what they say: The higher the horse, the harder the fall.
It wasn’t just her behaviour that left me blindsided, although witnessing an apparently older millennial fall apart at the thought of not checking her phone for a few hours certainly smashed generational stereotypes.
Rather, her genuine floundering upended my smug belief that smartphone “addiction” was mere hyperbole, little more than Luddite fearmongering, as though this addiction was simply a lack of willpower rather than a mental health condition – despite increasing evidence to the contrary.
The event saw around 25 attendees, most university students in their early 20s. (Photo: The Black Mirror SG)
For one, the Institute of Mental Health last year published the results of a study conducted among Singaporeans aged 15 to 65 on the extent of problematic smartphone use.
Problematic smartphone use was defined in terms of dependence and excessive time spent on devices, as well as the problems caused, including feeling restless or fretful without one’s phone. It’s also linked to mental health issues, such as depression, anxiety and insomnia.
About one-third of respondents were found to have problematic smartphone use, with those aged 15 to 34 showing the highest rates of such behaviour.
In fact, the findings inspired the students’ campaign, aptly titled The Black Mirror SG, because the project group and their peers also struggle with problematic smartphone use.
One group member, Goh Chiang Yang, said his highest daily screen time was recorded during the summer holidays when he had nothing planned. It was “something like 19 hours”, the 25-year-old shared candidly. He even kept his phone with him in the toilet.
His peers, most in their early 20s, tend to average around seven to eight hours of screen time daily, affecting their relationships.
Related:
Naturally, the ironic loss of real-life social connection to social media, compounded by lingering pandemic isolation, has fuelled a growing appetite for “offline” experiences globally – particularly popular conversation card games that cultivate an otherwise elusive intimacy.
Yet I remained unconvinced by the romanticism of IRL interactions sans smartphone. Ignoring your phone doesn’t mean you’ll feel engaged or deeply connected with present company. You could still be thinking about your phone, even experiencing phantom vibrations.
The more significant gift – which most people urging others to unplug tend to overlook – was a lesson in being uncomfortable.
DISCONNECTING TO CONNECT
The thought of socialising with strangers alone is enough to give any introvert nightmares for a week. Doing it without the security blanket of a smartphone to the rescue when things get too overwhelming? A fate worse than death.
But I was also a journalist. And a slightly masochistic one at that.
So, of course, I found myself at a new table with people I couldn’t possibly have anything in common with: Gen Zs born from 2000. These kids were barely alive when I was sitting for my Primary School Leaving Examination (PSLE).
No matter. Maybe the conversation cards would actually create a true sense of connection – or at least an open-mindedness I clearly needed after literally fleeing from the woman who wanted to announce her three-hour digital disappearance on Instagram Stories.
Perhaps it was the explicit intention of the event or the participants it drew. What could’ve felt like an obligatory corporate team-bonding activity was instead enlivened by a sense of refreshing curiosity.
Except for CNA Lifestyle's Grace Yeoh (top left), everyone in this photo was born from 2000. (Photo: The Black Mirror SG)
That night, we tackled questions few people would’ve dared ask in a typical first interaction: What is an unpopular opinion that you would defend to death? What’s one thing you love about yourself? When was the last time you cried?
I learnt that one of my table companions and his peers couldn’t relate to the entitled Gen Z stereotype. They were hungry for opportunities and understood the sacrifices it would take to achieve their ambitions.
Another, who arrived late due to his hectic internship in consulting, lit up when he spoke about his passion for his job. He remained unfazed when I tried to dash his idealism with my jaded millennial sensibilities. (My bad. I should’ve known better than to kill a unicorn.)
Someone else loved that she was a kind person in situations when other people usually wouldn’t be or when there was little reason to be.
And another person said she loved her spontaneity and willingness to try anything – like showing up to the event alone just to support a friend, who was in the project group.
Even though conversation occasionally dipped, we didn’t retreat to our phones like we’d usually do. We sat in silence – an unspoken understanding to resume the discussion after everyone had a moment to decompress.
In the end, our table’s conversation overran the stipulated three hours. And no one had “phubbed” – the act of ignoring the people around you to pay attention to your phone.
“A lot of people expressed that they thought about their phones a lot at the start of the event, because they felt very uncomfortable being away from their phones for so long,” Charlotte Ang, 23, a member of the project group, later shared.
“But with the help of our conversation cards and just being in the presence of other humans, they began to enjoy this liberating experience of not being answerable to their text messages, not feeling that compulsion to open and scroll social media when the conversation is getting awkward or if there’s a lapse in conversation.”
The group created cards with conversation prompts - without the help of ChatGPT, they said - that were categorised into three levels of vulnerability. (Photo: The Black Mirror SG)
It is often believed that most addictions stem from a compulsion to avoid something rather than a desire to seek something else. Until that evening, I’d assumed a smartphone addiction was a way to avoid boredom and responsibilities. But that now feels like an oversimplification.
Unlike palatable narratives on social media, real life is rarely black and white. Maybe this addiction – this need for an instant escape from reality – is, at its core, about avoiding the difficulty of handling complexity.
And if social media is the opiate of the masses, then I was ill.
CONVENIENCE REMOVES NUANCE
The woman who couldn’t fathom being phone-free for a few hours may have displayed obvious signs of smartphone or social media addiction.
But the more insidious signs could only be seen in the mirror: Concluding from a stranger’s split-second behaviour that she is but a self-important influencer; a funny anecdote in your WhatsApp debriefs to friends after the night.
Believing you’re different – no, better – than someone seemingly desperate for constant access to online validation, depths to which you’d never sink.
Closing yourself off to the conflicting multitudes that possibly exist in a person because you’ve made up your mind about them based on their persona.
“I feel like most of the time on social media, the opinion is given to you before you have time to form an opinion. It becomes like an echo chamber and everyone has herd mentality,” echoed another group member, Joan Ang.
The 23-year-old added that she often realises “no one has really done any research beyond what they see online” when she talks to people in real life about certain issues.
“Everyone’s opinions are the same. Then you realise everyone has just been taking the opinion that they’ve been fed.”
To be clear, The Black Mirror SG campaign isn’t suggesting a return to the Stone Age or forgoing social media entirely.
“Being able to spend time offline is actually a luxury, especially in Singapore, where the culture expects you to be contacted 24/7. (But) there needs to be this equilibrium,” added Chiang Yang.
“Unfortunately, you have to be online because our services are online, news outlets are transitioning online. To live a life completely off the grid or private is difficult, (especially if) you’re doing it by yourself.”
But neither do I believe the main purpose of disconnecting is to connect with other people. It is, more broadly, about doing the hard work of actual thought.
For everything smartphones and social media have given, they have taken as much, perhaps more. The way I see it, a smartphone or social media addiction is an addiction to utmost convenience.
Having access to the world’s biggest library within milliseconds offers a panacea for the necessary labour of questioning our biases and feelings; deciding our own beliefs and values; building relationships with people, not personas – and, quite simply, being human.
It's easier to trawl TikTok or YouTube whenever I need a perspective on a cultural trend, turn to a chronically online heuristic to describe a complex world issue, or rely on ChatGPT to add nuance to my articles. And believe me, I am always tempted to abandon good old-fashioned thinking.
Just like it would've been easier to scroll through social media whenever there was a lull in conversation during the evening, instead of wrack my brain for something to say or learn to sit in completely normal silence.
But in the era of excessive ease, the difficulty of a process is often why I trust it. The effort is the point.
More from the Take It Offline series:
Continue reading...