I’ve always been a fan of science fiction. Not the overly technical kind, but the kind that makes you think about what it means to be human. As a kid, I fell in love with the Terminator films. Decades later, I’m still hooked, but now I’ve graduated to Black Mirror, the eerie anthology series that explores how technology, when unchecked, can reshape our emotions, relationships, and reality. What once felt like thrilling action now feels uncomfortably familiar. 

“There’s no fate but what we make for ourselves,” says John Connor in Terminator 2: Judgement Day. In the face of robots and war, that line used to evoke a sense of urgency. Now, it feels more like a desperate reminder that we still have control if only we choose to use it over how disconnected we’ve become as people. 

You don’t have to look far to see it. As a millennial living in Dhaka, I’ve watched friendships fade—not out of apathy, but out of exhaustion. Everyone is busy. Everyone is stuck somewhere. And everyone is tired. Catching up now requires calendar invites and careful planning, often postponed indefinitely. To never. We still care, but we rarely connect. 

Family bonds haven’t been spared, either. With nuclear families now the norm, many of us live apart from the very people we were once raised by or raised with. This shift is practical, even necessary, in urban life, but it comes at a cost. The emotional support system that once cushioned tough times is slowly fading away. When our younger siblings or children feel overwhelmed, there’s often no one around who truly listens, at least not in person. 

And these trends have real consequences. A 2021 survey by the BRAC Institute of Governance and Development found that nearly 40% of youth in Bangladesh reported experiencing symptoms of anxiety or depression during the pandemic—a figure that hasn’t shown significant improvement in the years since. Mental health helplines across Dhaka have seen a consistent increase in calls, especially from people under 35. Yet, talking about mental health still carries stigma, and professional support remains unaffordable or inaccessible for many. 

So instead, we turn to screens. We scroll through social media, bombarded by filtered happiness. Everyone’s achieving, celebrating, and glowing. We compare, and often, we spiral. Psychologist Dr Jean Twenge, in her book iGen, links this constant digital exposure to a sharp rise in anxiety and depression among Gen Z, especially those who spend more than three hours a day online. Sound familiar? Of course it does.

Then came generative AI. What began as tools to help us write or organise eventually became substitutes for companionship. You can now have “relationships” with AI personas, share your feelings, or even roleplay romance at a deeply intimate level – all without ever talking to a real person. I’ve tried it too; I typed into a chatbot when I had no one else to talk to. It was immediate, non-judgemental, and even helpful in a way. I felt acknowledged, but no, it didn’t feel real. A real human being wouldn’t have patted me on the back all the way through the conversation. Negative feedback often is a necessity. 

MIT’s Dr Sherry Turkle warns us in Alone Together that these interactions train us to expect less from people. We become comfortable with shallow, simulated responses and slowly lose the patience, courage, and vulnerability it takes to be with other humans. And that, to me, is far more terrifying than any sci-fi villain. If Terminator warned us of killer robots and Black Mirror warns us of emotional decay, then we are already living the crossover episode. 

Recently, I went through a difficult patch in my personal life. Someone close, someone I deeply cared for, began to drift away. No dramatic end. Just a gradual silence that grew louder each day. I found myself fumbling with words, unsure of how to express emotion without a screen to buffer me. That’s when I realised – I hadn’t forgotten how to feel; I had just forgotten how to share. 

And yet, in that moment, what I longed for most was not a perfectly worded AI response. I wanted a real voice. A messy, awed, human voice. One who would stumble but understand. 

U.S. Surgeon General Dr Vivek Murthy recently declared loneliness a public health epidemic. He compared the health effects of isolation to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. The consequences are not just emotional – they are physical, social, and deeply human. 

If we want to survive this age of hyperconnection and emotional disconnection, we must fight to remain human. How? Simple. Call a friend. Visit your parents. Invite your colleague for tea without a calendar invite. Head out for a drive without a destination. Feed a dog on the roadside. Make eye contact. Hug. Make mistakes. Be terribly awkward. But be there. Be a human. 

Maybe we don’t need to fight Skynet like in the Terminator franchise. Maybe we just need to NOT become it. 

Because at the end of Terminator 2, Arnold Schwarzenegger (the Terminator) says, “I know now why you cry, but it is something I can never do.” That line stayed with me, not because it speaks to the limits of machines but because it reminds us of the endless capacity of the human heart. 

Let’s not forget what it means to be human while we still have the chance.

REFERENCES 

BRAC Institute of Governance and Development. (2021). Youth Mental Health in Bangladesh: Survey Findings. BRAC University. 

(Note: Exact title may vary. You might need to verify the original publication/report for precise citation.) 

Murthy, V. H. (2023). Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation: The U.S. Surgeon General’s Advisory on the Healing Effectsof Social Connection and Community. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. 

Retrieved from: https://www.hhs.gov/surgeongeneral/priorities/loneliness/index.html 

Twenge, J. M. (2017). iGen: Why Today’s Super-Connected Kids Are Growing Up Less Rebellious, More Tolerant, Less Happy—and Completely Unprepared for Adulthood. Atria Books. 

Turkle, S. (2011). Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other. Basic Books.