Error 404: Oops! Page not found. Picture: 123RF/ IRYNA OMELCHAK
Error 404: Oops! Page not found. Picture: 123RF/ IRYNA OMELCHAK

There was a time before search engines (there was even an internet before search engines) where the only way to find a webpage was to transcribe its precise URL. Writing on that internet was a bit like whispering to yourself in a heavy metal club; your voice utterly indistinguishable from the din.

And it was in this disinhibiting cacophony that many of us came to possess our formative notions of what the internet was: just the internet, we called it; only the internet. We didn’t realise then that everything was going to become indexed, searchable. And even when it happened, it took us a while recognise the implications: that at any moment the music could stop and you’d be screaming loudly into the silence, with everyone else staring at you.

When the internet became searchable, each of us became a keyword, and a little array of “search results” began following us around. This flotsam and jetsam of a lived life; these trimmings and clippings of a person that should by all rights scatter to the wind, but instead get caught in this net.

And there, since it’s all there is, these fragments pretend to say something significant about us. They queue up, in royal blue testimony, on someone else’s desktop: some new squeeze, or old nemesis, or future employer.

The burden of this digital memory has been differently felt. If you are working in HR in Bloemfontein and you happen to be named “Michael Jackson” or something, then you can live forever free of the pound of flesh search engine optimisation  offers, and the pound it takes away.

But after a brief process of elimination, many of us are easily found. So what’s there? What made its way online? What are you forced to remember about yourself, and what is everyone else made to remember about you? It might be something you’re proud of or fine with, in which case remembering isn’t such an ordeal, but for many people it’s something they could really do without.

It needn’t be some great disgrace or takedown (though we’ve seen plenty of those). Perhaps it’s just something you said once that you no longer believe; or an old mode that you used to think was hip — some cruel snarkiness of youth — which you now recall with dismay. These are the sorts of transformations, the waxing and waning of self, that we should be permitted ad infinitum, but which we now often feel caught and exposed in.

What more poetic legislation has been proposed, in this life, than “the right to be forgotten”?

Come to think of it, it would have been nice to be consulted before these things got “indexed” in the first place. But given that we weren’t, some people have wondered whether we can at least ask for them to be de-indexed. What more poetic legislation has been proposed, in this life, than “the right to be forgotten”? It captures something of the elemental contradiction at the heart of being alive: the desire to be seen and acknowledged, and the simultaneous desire to retreat and disappear. Or as the poet Stephen Dunn put it: “After the power to choose, a man wants the power to erase.”

In 1998, a Spanish man, Mario Costeja González, sold a property to pay a debt. The sale was recorded in a few lines in a local newspaper and in the normal course of events it would have been soon forgotten. However, the newspaper put its archive online and from then on every search of his name returned this record. By 2014, it had been 16 years of being defined by the same moment, and in that year Mario Costeja González took Google to court and he won.

The ruling subsequently gave EU citizens the power to delist results which are deemed inadequate or irrelevant; an expression of “the right to silence on past events in life that are no longer occurring”. (There is no equivalent local legislation).

But the ruling did something else too: it allowed us to imagine, for a moment, that our new reality might be open to revision. It’s an important realisation, and one we should hold on to. Because as we’re increasingly discovering, the internet is made for beings that we are not: beings who value and recognise the truth; who are naturally fair and just; and who don’t change or regret. We still need to retrofit it to accommodate us as we actually are.

Now a little insolvency doesn’t sound too bad to me; it’s nothing I would’ve bothered the European Court of Justice about. But isn’t that just the thing? That our humiliations should be so idiosyncratic? It’s not for me to decide what you can live with: we are each the global authority on our own sleepless nights.

And in the five years since the ruling, the overwhelming number of requests have come not from politicians or public figures trying to suppress great scandals but from private citizens (if such a thing still exists) trying to rid themselves of mentions on social media pages.

The ruling only applies in the EU though, unlike the internet itself, so anyone searching from another territory would still see all the results. Truly effective forgetting would require legal co-operation on a scale that doesn’t exist yet, and might never. And there is, of course, good reason that one country shouldn’t be able to determine what the rest of the world can find on Google; the potential for abuse and censorship is enormous.

Similar qualms bedevil the ruling even in its present limited state. It’s one thing to forget by accident, the way we’ve been doing it for millennia, and it’s quite another to forget on purpose; knowing full well what might be lost in the process.

For some people, it seems patent that we should always err on the side of remembering. After all, the right to be forgotten conflicts with the right to know, and inevitably people will seek to suppress information that is of serious importance and enduring public interest. What will all the perverts and crooks and racists and corrupt politicians and negligent professionals try to hide? What allegations are going to be allowed to stand, and which will be made to disappear?

For the time being, it’s been left to Big Tech to decide how to balance this conflict; Google has so far refused to delete more than half of the 3.2 million URLs that it has received for delisting.

But if something is actually important to remember, we really ought to keep it elsewhere. The internet hates to forget anything you want it to, but it will forget everything else. It is a corrupted mesh of broken links, dead ends, deleted sites, decay. The average web page lasts only 100 days. It will forget things of great value, aesthetic accomplishment, historical importance and moral significance. Nothing prevents it from doing so; no law or statute. And everything that seems so immutable upon it now — the global newspapers and the social media giants — are all just one fated bankruptcy, merger or redesign away from non-existence. Or as the empty link often reads: “Oops, there’s nothing here.”

When the internet became searchable, each of us became a keyword. Picture: 123RF/ RVLSOFT
When the internet became searchable, each of us became a keyword. Picture: 123RF/ RVLSOFT

From this vantage, far from being a steel trap for all our greatest embarrassments, the web is actually catastrophically ephemeral: it is a perpetual now, with no trace of what it has been in other moments; of the great experiments of human comedy, tragedy, absurdity and cruelty that it’s hosted over the decades. Increasingly, the work of our whole civilisation is taking place on a medium that is disintegrating beneath our fingertips. Depending on your relationship to oblivion, the whole thing can be quite distressing.

Among the distressed are web preservationists, who are trying to find ways to hold on to and record the digital era so that future generations can try unpick the significance of “blinking white guy”, among other things. The American Library of Congress valiantly attempted to archive every tweet ever written (before giving up in 2017), while the Schlesinger Library at Harvard University is trying to “document the digital footprint” of #MeToo.

But the biggest of these efforts at remembering is the Internet Archive, which roams the web saving pages over time. Using their Wayback Machine you can visit — in a limited capacity — the internet of 1996, 2004, last week. You can see the earliest websites of massive brands like Apple and Reebok; all looking like a continuing education project undertaken by your great aunt. Remember MySpace at its prime? Remember the cyber reign of Lolcats? Well, the Archive does. Its stated ambition is to record all of the public internet, and allow you to see not only what it is now, but also what it has been.

But the Internet Archive is still patchy and largely incomplete. While there are some sites it saves regularly (it has saved businesslive.co.za almost 12,000 times), most of them go unarchived for months or years. And even then, they’re often corrupted or only partially navigable.

What’s more it isn’t keyword searchable, so you can only find the specific URL you’re looking for. In this respect it resembles the early internet, and we can still pretend to ourselves that what we have removed or deleted has actually gone away or that our “disappearing” posts actually disappear.

Imagine being Googled not only on the whole internet, but also on everything that the internet has ever been?

But it’s easy to see the way things are going: that archiving efforts will become ever more comprehensive — that everything will be held on to — and that they’ll eventually become searchable too.

“We hope to implement a full-text search engine at some point in the future,” the Archive cheerily announces on their FAQ page. Um ... what? Excellent news for future scholars, et cetera, but imagine being Googled not only on the whole internet, but also on everything that the internet has ever been?

Who knows what will lurch up from the deep? Every momentary data breach or dating profile or legal filing or Reddit thread or leaked chat or hacked photo or deleted post; all your social media sites before you decided to go private. Not to mention all the “personal data” we keep waiving our rights to, which we can’t quite bring ourselves to worry about. Well, we might find ourselves worrying sometime soon.

The human mind knows how to prioritise and it knows how to forget. It is one of its central functions. It takes the ceaseless light and noise of sensory input, all that has been said and received over the years, and it extracts an astonishingly simple thread: this, it says, is what matters. Like so, almost everything falls away. We lose many beautiful things in this process, no doubt, but we also gain a lot: we gain the ability to live better in the present; to move past heartbreak, grief and shame; to develop and change without apology or fear of contradiction. And we are able to grant a special significance to that which is remembered and retained; in this sense, the value of remembering actually relies on most things being forgotten.

There is a right amount to remember and a right amount to forget: about yourself, each other, your history. In general, we have erred on the side of remembering too little. For the first time, in some of these realms, we are in danger of remembering too much. What’s worse: we are remembering for all the wrong reasons. We are remembering for no reason at all.

If we are going to make memory so powerful — and it will soon be more powerful than ever — then we are also going to have to empower forgetting. We are going to have to recognise the crucial role that forgetting, and being forgotten, plays for each of us. We will need to find ways for the vast collective memory that we are creating to be kinder to us. We are easy to diminish, and even to destroy; nowadays it’s a moment’s work.

The lifetime’s work is finding some way, despite the odds, of making us worth honouring. The work is also to consider our small battles and idiosyncratic mortifications sacrosanct; to recognise that the little we are is all that we are, and that it is something we are entitled to care about and to protect.

Interested in this debate? The Reading List:

Picture: SUPPLIED
Picture: SUPPLIED

The End of Forgetting: Growing up with Social Media by Kate Eichhorn

Save for a few mortifying journals and photographs, kept safely in trunks, many of us can gladly leave our adolescent selves behind. What happens when you can’t? When that self is meticulously documented, not only on your own social media but on everyone else’s too? Eichhorn considers what this relentless memory means for a new generation of people trying to grow out of past identities.

Picture: SUPPLIED
Picture: SUPPLIED

When We Are No More: How Digital Memory is Shaping Our Future by Abby Smith Rumsey

A historian and archivist, Smith Rumsey explores the history of human memory — our efforts, over thousands of years, to keep what needs to be kept — right up to the paradox of our present. We are holding onto more than ever before, but more precariously than ever; stored in bits and bytes that might soon be unreadable. What historical record will be left for future generations, and how will they access it?

Picture: SUPPLIED
Picture: SUPPLIED

Delete: The Virtue of Forgetting in a Digital Age by Viktor Mayer-Schönberger

Probably the canonical digital forgetting text, internet law scholar Mayer-Schönberger looks at the perils of digital memory in both our personal and public lives. What do we lose when remembering, rather than forgetting, becomes the default? He proposes expiration dates on digital information to shift the balance back to forgetting (provided it doesn’t get digitally archived before it expires, that is).

Picture: SUPPLIED
Picture: SUPPLIED

Ctrl+Z: The Right to be Forgotten by Meg Leta Jones

Investigating the ground-breaking ruling on the right to be forgotten, Leta Jones delves into the debates about censorship, privacy, reputation and identity that come to the fore when we grapple with legal responses to the threat of digital memory.

 

Picture: SUPPLIED
Picture: SUPPLIED

 

 

So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed by Jon Ronson

A classic on the new forms of mortification in the digital age. Ronson profiles some of the earliest mass shaming causalities, including Justine “#HasJustineLandedYet” Sacco and Lindsay Stone. He works out that Google made about half a million dollars off Sacco’s shaming. Stone enlists the (incredibly expensive) services of an online reputational management firm to try to change her search results. If you want to see how well that worked, just google her.