Digital Immigrants

Zhang Qiang sat blankly in front of his computer for an entire day. On the screen was his father's WeChat profile picture - a gray, empty space.

Three months ago, his father passed away. A sudden cerebral hemorrhage took away the quiet old man, and also took away one of the few sources of warmth in Zhang Qiang's life.

At first, Zhang Qiang didn't pay much attention to his father's WeChat. His father didn't use WeChat much when he was alive. His Moments were empty, and the chat history only contained a few sentences. It wasn't until yesterday, when he was sorting through his father's belongings, that he saw the old smartphone and inexplicably remembered his father's WeChat account.

He opened WeChat, and everything seemed normal. Contacts, Moments, official accounts... everything was there. Only, the profile picture had become a blank space. Zhang Qiang tried sending his father a message: "Dad, are you doing well over there?" The message was sent successfully, but there was no response below the profile picture.

He thought it was a network problem and restarted his phone, restarted the router, and even ran to the balcony with the best signal. The result was still the same.

The next day, Zhang Qiang called WeChat customer service.

"Hello, how can I help you?" The customer service representative's voice was sweet and professional.

"My father passed away. His WeChat profile picture is now a blank space, and no one replies to messages. I want to ask what's going on?" Zhang Qiang tried to keep his voice calm.

"Sir, please provide your father's WeChat account and the relevant death certificate."

Zhang Qiang submitted his father's account and a scanned copy of the death certificate as requested. A few hours later, he received a reply from WeChat customer service: "After verification, this account has been automatically cancelled by the system due to prolonged inactivity and failure to complete real-name authentication."

Zhang Qiang was stunned.

"Cancelled? There are some photos in my father's account, and some... some memories!" he replied anxiously.

"I'm sorry, sir. Once an account is cancelled, all data will be permanently deleted and cannot be recovered."

Zhang Qiang felt a wave of dizziness. He remembered the scenes of his father when he was alive: his father awkwardly swiping his finger across the screen, trying to learn how to use WeChat Pay, just to transfer money to him to buy some good food; his father carefully liking things in Moments, silently following his life...

All of this disappeared without a trace with the cancellation of the account.

Zhang Qiang was not reconciled and continued to negotiate with customer service. He even threatened to sue WeChat. But the customer service representative kept repeating the same sentence: "Once an account is cancelled, all data will be permanently deleted and cannot be recovered."

He began searching online for similar situations and found that many netizens had encountered the same problem. They called these people whose accounts were cancelled after death "digital immigrants," and their data, their memories, everything in the digital world, was erased with the demise of their physical bodies.

A few days later, Zhang Qiang opened WeChat again and found that his father's account had completely disappeared. Searching for the account displayed "User does not exist."

Zhang Qiang suddenly felt an unprecedented emptiness. He didn't know where his father had gone, or whether in that digital world, his father had also completely disappeared like this.

A few months later, while sorting through his computer, Zhang Qiang found a file with the suffix ".dat". The file name was a random combination of letters and numbers, and the modification date was the day his father died. He tried to open the file with data recovery software, just to see what would happen.

The file was successfully recovered, but the content inside completely broke Zhang Qiang.

It was a "user agreement." Densely packed text detailing the terms and conditions users needed to abide by when using WeChat services. One of the clauses stated: "Upon the death of a user, the company has the right to cancel their account and delete all related data without further notice."

At the end of the agreement, there was a small box with the words "I have read and agree to the above terms." Next to the box was a blurry check mark.

Zhang Qiang knew that was what his father had casually clicked when he first registered for WeChat.

He collapsed into his chair, tears streaming down his face.

Just then, his phone rang. It was the WeChat message notification sound.

He opened WeChat and saw a strange profile picture with the words "New User" on it.

The new user sent a message: "Hello, I am your father's WeChat account, now I will take over."

Zhang Qiang's hands trembled even more violently. He stared at the screen, unable to say a word for a long time.

"May I ask, do you need any service?" The new user sent another message, in a calm and indifferent tone.

Zhang Qiang suddenly woke up, he realized that perhaps in the near future, when he left this world, his WeChat account would also be taken over like this, and then continue to contribute data and traffic to this vast digital empire.

He suddenly laughed, his laughter full of helplessness and sorrow. He turned off his phone, walked to the window, and looked at the brightly lit city in the distance, as if he saw countless "digital immigrants" floating in the air, homeless.