MY friend Samya said something during a long leisurely lunch that stayed with me: “We don’t ask after our families anymore.” You want to know how your friend is doing? You ask about their family. Are we too rushed to ask now or do we think it’s too invasive? We were talking not so much about how things are different but why they are so. What has fundamentally changed about our social and familial structure that has resulted in us becoming so disconnected? Are we being raised with a new set of values, and if so, who rewrote those values?
When Samya said that to me, I realised I don’t do it nearly as often as I would — or should — and that led me to another realisation: I’m not socialising as much as I used to. It took Samya and I almost two years to meet up. Busy lives, busy minds and the rigmarole of living in Karachi. I prefer being a homebody but I’m so glad I went out to meet her.
Who am I?
This reminded me of the essay ‘The Anti-Social Century’ by Derek Thompson which I read earlier this year and am happy to cite from it today.
Thompson writes about the decline of the social century which, to my surprise, he pinpoints to the 1970s in America, and not the advent of social media which I like to lay all the blame on. He links it to a shift in political priorities where the government cut spending in public spaces, which impacted active communities. This coincided with the expansion and creation of suburban life, where Americans shifted to a more ‘private’ way of living — socialising in homes, with their people. They also began to spend more time in front of the television. Thompson writes: “In 1970, just six per cent of sixth graders had a TV set in their bedroom; in 1999, that proportion had grown to 77pc.” It transformed lives and culture, and of course, a sense of community. The smartphone has upended everything. We may be in touch with more people across the world but there is no joy in connecting with someone in person.
“Self-imposed solitude might just be the most important social fact of the 21st century in America,” Thompson writes.
This solitude means young people aren’t hanging out in person.
This solitude means young people aren’t hanging out in person. While the human brain may be 90pc developed by age five, “its neural circuitry takes a long time to mature”. Play is one of the things that helps the brain to socially learn. Screen time has sadly created socially underdeveloped children who, data shows, will inevitably become socially stunted adults. Covid mandated isolation, but five years later, we prefer working from home, eating at home, shopping from home, staying home.
Our screen addiction has killed a sense of community. It has also made “society weaker, meaner, and more delusional”, he writes.
There is something counterintuitive at play here though — while screen time has allowed us to develop strong bonds with friends online who share our interests, it is “wreaking havoc on the middle ring of ‘familiar but not intimate’ relationships with the people who live around us”. That’s the wider community, the mohallah, the uncle down the street who could tell you off. Today we don’t know our neighbours. It is this group,the mohallah, that teaches us tolerance, argues Thompson.
You can fight with your friends and family on and offline but you wouldn’t treat the aforementioned mohallah uncle like that in person. You would exercise restraint when hearing his slightly kooky racist views but online, you would eviscerate him. The latter is the nature of our political discourse. We are mean and delusional on screens and, on the flip side, insular and less engaged with the community.
Do you remember how frustrating it was to have elders brush off our most dramatic fight with a friend when we were young? It felt like our world was imploding but they acted like it was nothing. Because they understood disagreement was an important part of life. With the loss of community, we have lost our ability to live with people we disagree with.
We are practising politics alone or with similar-minded people online (read: venting) and not in community, where actionable change is possible. Imagine organising for a candidate whose policies you can get behind.
Right now, there is a social disconnect. Can we be pulled out?
Yes.
Thompson cites a few studies to show that ‘forced’ conversations with strangers on commutes made people feel more positive. Other papers came to similar findings. We can be manipulated into extroversion, for which we will be happier.
Lunch reminded me that we are fundamentally social and feel better being around people. We need to find ways to connect and recreate our mohallah, even with our cranky uncles.
The writer is a journalism instructor.
X: @LedeingLady
Published in Dawn, November 30th, 2025