Are We More Socially Divided Than Ever?

How switching to a flip phone revealed the consequences of hyperindividualism in the Digital Age.

At 19 years old, I made an almost unheard of choice for someone my age: I transferred my SIM card into the back of a little silver flip phone—and never looked back. 

I knew some would find my decision hard to swallow. Why would anyone willingly choose to use outdated technology and make life harder for themself? If it wasn’t already apparent, the giant characters on my senior-friendly T9 keyboard made the unlikelihood of my situation quite clear. 

Smartphone Addiction Runs Deep

My first-ever cell phone was a fourth generation iPhone. The sleek, pocket-sized black and silver touchscreen phone was gifted to me by my parents when I first started commuting to middle school by myself at the age of 11. 

Like many others I know, I made my first ever Instagram profile around the same time. Even back when iPhones had headphone jacks and home buttons, I remember having a problematic relationship with my smartphone. I recall wasting away hours scrolling on Instagram, despite my parents begging me to do something active. 

As technology evolved, so did the severity of my problem. 

After Instagram came Snapchat, and later TikTok. Instead of engaging with my friends when we were face-to-face, we would confoundingly send each other memes while sitting feet apart. In crucial moments like writing my college essay or studying for the SATs, I remember not being able to focus. My smartphone glistening on the desk in front of me beckoned me to check it. 

More often than not, I would give in to temptation. Hours later, I would find myself still scrolling. Snapping out of my smartphone-induced trance, I would be unsure why I picked up my phone in the first place. 

Fed up with the constant distraction and my dwindling attention span, I was desperate to break free from the smartphone-obsessed stereotype of Gen Z. Years of my life had cumulatively been robbed from me due to my bad tech habit. By the time I got to university, I finally decided to do something about it.

Taking the Plunge

After popping my SIM card in the back of a flimsy, $40 “glorified toy” (as my mother once called it), my flip phone was up-and-running—and thus began my journey towards smartphone-less self fulfillment. 

At the dawn of my flip phone era, I made a startling discovery while on board the Q train. Without any Instagram Reels to halfheartedly scroll through or music to drown out the screeching sound of the subway braking or abrupt announcements from the suicidal-sounding train conductor, for the first time in what had probably been a long time—I looked up. 

Scanning the entirety of the train's metal, bolted interior, I realized I was the only one on the whole subway car doing so. The rest of the commuters—necks craned, backs hunched against the hard yellow and orange plastic seats—had their eyes glued to their smartphones. I suddenly felt very alone. Alone in witnessing how during the above ground portion of my route, a ray of light periodically would flash through the window and light up the eyes of the stranger sitting across from me. Alone in studying the five boroughs and intersections where the colourful depictions of train lines converged on the framed subway map. Alone in coming up with the backstories of my fellow commuters—where they’re coming from, where they’re headed—and any other games I could think up to entertain myself.  

That day, I desperately longed for someone to meet my eye. If another person were to look up, it would mean I was not the only one to notice how people sharing the same space could pay each other so little mind.

I would bite my tongue every time I hung out with a friend and the jolt of a notification would interrupt our conversation, at times for minutes on end. While patiently waiting to regain their attention, I would twiddle my thumbs or glance around the room—my eyes flitting around anxiously without a device to attach themselves to. 

I returned to my university’s campus in the fall, flip phone in hand. Sitting atop a large jagged rock overlooking the main stretch of campus, I could observe the floods of students pouring out of buildings when the bells at a nearby church rang out every hour. Passersby wore big over-ear, noise-canceling headphones. Their eyes were zeroed in on the path ahead of them as they trudged through the crowd, as if they were trying to get from point A to point B as fast as humanly possible. Others nearly bumped into their peers, as a result of glancing down at their phones instead of their surroundings. 

The veil had been lifted from my eyes, revealing the people around me to be screen junkies, blissfully ignorant to the severity of their condition. 

After having my eyes opened by my monastic, smartphone-free lifestyle to how technology can drive a wedge between us, I decided to put pen to paper to help others see the light. I self-published “The Flip Phone Manifesto: Why I Switched to a Flip Phone and You Should Too,” almost a year later, in October, 2023. 

It was a project that came to be through countless days spent writing in Prospect Park during my trip home for the summer. Each afternoon, I would pack a lunch and trek out to a waterfall off-the-beaten-path where highschool kids would go to drink and smoke. The lack of internet connection on my laptop meant I was truly unplugged. Listening to the thrashing sound of the waterfall, I could write on my offline laptop for hours on end with the utmost focus. The fleet of leafy green trees that towered over me were like an army whose mission it was to protect my concentration. Whenever I needed a break, I would dip my toes into the cool water and gaze down upon the tiny figures walking on the path below. Only once my back began to hurt from leaning against the sharp, graffiti-covered rocks, or when I ran out of the rations I had stashed in my bag, was I forced to turn back.

“Arriving at university, I did not quite find the social haven I had been picturing,” I penned in my manifesto. “I was surprised by the difficulty I was having making friends in my classes. When I hear stories of my mom’s pre-digital technology university experience, the difference is upsettingly stark. This all begs the question, do we no longer want robust social circles?”

Rising Social Fragmentation: Fact or Fable?

On a brisk fall afternoon, I set out for my university’s campus. I hoped speaking to other students my age on how their social media habits have shaped their social lives would reveal once and for all if there is any truth to the antisocial perception of Gen Z.

Sam Moffat, a student at Toronto Metropolitan University (TMU) and longtime user of TikTok, Instagram and X, had a similar experience to mine when first starting university. “There's those accounts when you first come to university where it lists all the people [in your year] and where you can follow them on Instagram. I think I met a few people there, but then I never became friends with them in-person,” she explained. 

We sat on a bench on the same stretch of campus where I first noticed the reclusive nature of my peers. “It's a lot harder to [meet] people in classes and less people are open to talking, because everyone's a little more involved with their online presence,” she continued. “It's way easier to just follow someone on Instagram and like [their] stories.” 

When asked if there is more of a divide as a result of social media, she chuckled as if the answer to my question was glaringly obvious. “Absolutely. No one talks in-person anymore unless you're forced to have a conversation and really get to know someone.” 

However depressing this may sound, I have also found it to be true. Sometimes the stars will align in a rare kismet moment and I’ll meet someone in class just as willing to socialize, but for the most part I’ve gotten to know my peers through group projects, extracurriculars and other scenarios with imposed social interaction.

Nick Galloro, another student at TMU and long-term user of TikTok, Instagram and Snapchat, thinks social media’s impact on our social lives is undeniable. “People are a lot more stand off[ish] and a little bit scared to interact in-person, because they're so much more confident online,” he said. “If they have that crutch there, they might as well use it.”

Galloro spoke fervently, “People don't want to leave their houses, because they now have this excuse to not leave.”

Line Guerouache, a TMU student and longtime user of TikTok, Instagram and Snapchat, has a different perspective. “[Social media] is the easiest way to make friends because you’re not really seeing them in-person. Some people feel shy or awkward when they're in-person, so maybe it's easier for them to use Instagram, Snapchat, or even TikTok to find [friends],” she told me. “[Social media] creates new friendships.” 

Guerouache claimed she has made a lot of friends online and even managed to meet up with many of them in-person. But are relationships formed online as fulfilling as real-life ones? 

Brianna Wiens, an assistant professor at the University of Waterloo and specialist in community building through digital technology, joined me for a Zoom interview one morning. “Can we get the same kind of connection online?” she asked rhetorically before pausing. “I don't want to say that online interaction is inherently shallow, but the structural incentives that govern it do make more authentic connection harder to achieve.”

Wiens notes that online interactions lack key aspects of interpersonal communication and relationship building, including tone, body language and social cues. These build empathy, trust—and in turn, connection. 

This comes as no surprise after the COVID-19 pandemic. It’s difficult to forget the collective mental health nosedive we experienced during the height of the pandemic, when social distancing requirements prevented us from physically interacting with friends and family. 

I was in my junior year of highschool, when my social circle shrank temporarily to just my immediate family. Sitting out on my stoop and banging pots and pans together with my neighbours to show support for essential workers, was sometimes the only outside social interaction I got all day. My friends and I would attempt to stay connected online. Though, their glitching voices and pixelated faces boxed into squares on my screen felt like hollow replicas. 

Post-pandemic it seems we still haven’t been able to shake this sense of solitude. In 2023, the U.S. Surgeon General issued an advisory on the loneliness epidemic facing Americans, sending up a smoke signal for remaining cause for concern. “Across many measures, Americans appear to be becoming less socially connected over time,” states the report. Increased use of technology is cited as one of the “key indicators” of this spike in social isolation. 

“The implications of these individual and collective social schisms are no laughing matter,” warns U.S. Surgeon General, Vivek H. Murthy. “Loneliness is far more than just a bad feeling—it harms both individual and societal health.”

Launching the Zoom app, I logged onto a call to speak with Marcel O’Gorman, Professor and Founding Director of the Critical Media Lab at the University of Waterloo. I was eager to hear what O’Gorman, whose research pertains to tech ethics and responsible innovation, had to say about technology’s role in this phenomenon. 

O’Gorman notes that there’s not just one reason for social fragmentation. There are a host of technological, cultural and economic factors at play.

“The pandemic helped increase polarization, because people found solace in deep dives into social networks and online communities,” he explained. “Through those deep dives they built communities in digital spaces that they couldn't build outside in the world.”

“Because of the scientific nature of the pandemic with vaccines and mask wearing, these issues created a lot of division in terms of people feeling their rights had been infringed on,” he added. “That got confused with all kinds of other rights and conspiracy theories.” (Think anti-vaxxers, the Trucker Convoy, “stolen” elections, insurrections—the list goes on). 

O’Gorman explains the economy has also been a major contributor to social division. “When there's an economic downturn, people will tend toward more extremist thoughts, as a way of trying to explain why this is happening. Often [these] thought-systems make them feel victimized by fighting other thought-systems.”

According to O’Gorman, an “echo chamber" or "silo” is “a place where people go in and whatever they say, people echo back and agree with them.” He points to this idea as another theory behind this perceived spike in social fragmentation. 

Gustavo Ferreira, an assistant professor in the Faculty of Information at the University of Toronto, describes how echo chambers manifest online. “With online infrastructure that tries to cater to personalized tastes and interests, algorithms tend to [recommend] you only the things that it thinks you're interested in, which creates this bubble of information in which no opposing information can come in,” he explained. “The idea is these algorithms are filters that create bubbles of reality.” 

Wiens recognizes that we love these highly personalized feeds, “but they're also highly fragmented social experiences.” No two feeds are exactly alike: the niche 1960s retrofuturist fashion post on my explore page may never grace the explore page of someone who does not share my affinity for Space Age design. 

Ferreira, who wore a t-shirt adorned with the slogan “Billionaires are not your friends” and caricatures of big tech CEOs, Elon Musk; Mark Zuckerberg and Tim Cook, explains that the concept of “echo chambers” is not a new idea. Long before the advent of the Internet, a “filter bubble” could be inflated, for instance, by only subscribing to newspapers on one end of the political spectrum. “That idea and moral panic was already there,” he clarifies. 

Ferreira believes the danger of filter bubbles is overblown, as most people do not solely gather their information online. In cases where people may be retired, don’t have a lot of friends and don’t get much social activity, he does think they can pose a threat. 

Another flaw to this theory is that algorithms don’t exclusively promote content that aligns with users’ perceived interests—there is a notable exception. “The best way to produce activity on the Internet is to piss somebody off,” remarks O’Gorman.

Have you ever opened your explore page to see content so irritating, offensive, or incomprehensible that it prompted hundreds of people to viciously argue back and forth in the comments?

Commonly referred to as “rage bait,” these unpopular opinions and sensationalized posts disprove the existence of completely sealed-off online echo chambers, as they likely do not align with the user’s personal beliefs. 

According to Ferreira, people have become emboldened to voice controversial opinions and reactionary “hot takes” that in the past might have gone unspoken. “This becomes a problem because you can have hate speech and violence,” he warns. This in turn can lead to political and social division. 

Do all of these contributors to social fragmentation mean we are a generation doomed to be divided, simply because we live in the Digital Age?

Ferreira thinks not. “We should be skeptical of any diagnosis that goes only for the snapshot,” he advised. “I'm not convinced that we are [more] divided [than] we were before in the way people characterize it. This fragmentation already existed, but before it was less visible.”

Wiens concurs, “I think it's really tempting to say that division is new, or it's uniquely amplified by the digital age. The division is real in the sense that it reflects genuine conflicts and inequities, but it's also engineered intentionally and unintentionally by the systems that we've built.”

What Can Be Done?

Social division may not be unique to the Internet Era, but smartphones and social media certainly present a new set of challenges when attempting to bridge the divide.

“For us to discuss how we can be more united and less polarized, we should understand the root causes of the problems, not just the superficial elements of it,” emphasizes Ferreira. 

Increased media literacy, transparency from tech companies and government regulation of social media platforms are potential reforms proposed by both O’Gorman and Wiens.   

“The Internet's not going away. We can log off if we want, but we have to find ways to change it,” urged O’Gorman. 

In the meantime, he recommends searching for local community, engaging in open discourse and finding hobbies to replace time spent scrolling, in order to maintain healthier social habits. Although he acknowledges, “It's not easy, because none of those things are as attractive and as seductive as what you can find online.” 

Regardless if social fragmentation is old or new, real or manufactured, the ramifications are serious. “It's creating a lot of anxiety, especially for young people. They see a lot of polarization and don't necessarily want to take sides, so often the response is, ‘well I won't take any side,’” explains O’Gorman.

“I think that young people can do this,” he reassures. “It's not just their responsibility, but they can say a lot about what's happening on the Internet. I'd rather see them protest the tech bros then disengage.”

It’s easy to feel powerless to the grip social media has on us and the divisiveness it has exposed. Turning to a technological relic that could barely talk and text for solace irreversibly opened my eyes to the personal and societal damage caused by smartphone addiction if gone unchecked. 

After an almost two year commitment to my flip phone, I recently had to switch back to a smartphone to keep up with work-related demands. With a clamshell shaped hole in my heart, I carry the lessons I learned as a flip phone-user with me to this day: we should not settle for platforms and devices that profit off harming our individual and collective wellbeing.

Photos: Julia Tsaknis. Styling: Parris Washington, Ekiverere Oputu, Tade Alakija. Models: Amelia Jesseau, Parris Washington, Anabella Alfano, Mario Yugo, Chris Omu