Salma Tahir
I often find myself marvelling at the incredible advancements of artificial intelligence, the speed at which machines learn, their ability to analyse vast amounts of data, and the creativity they sometimes mimic. Yet, as impressive as AI is, there are intimate, deeply human experiences it will never possess. These are the things that make us who we are, the invisible threads woven through our memories and emotions. AI will never have a first memory. It will never recognise the sound of a mother’s voice or blush at a childhood embarrassment. It will never bear a scar with a story or smell the comforting scent of a particular house. Most importantly, it will never become the person it is because somebody once believed in it. My first memory is rooted in the busy streets of Karachi, a city alive with colour and noise. I was about four years old, standing outside my family’s modest home in Clifton, clutching a tiny kite. It was the day of Basant, the kite-flying festival. My father showed me how to hold the string just so, teaching me to feel the wind’s tug and the kite’s dance against the vast blue sky. That moment, the thrill of the kite soaring higher, the warmth of his hand guiding mine, became a beacon of joy and discovery. AI, no matter how sophisticated, will never have such a memory, no first touch of the string, no first thrill of flight, no first connection to a loved one’s guiding hand. The sound of a mother’s voice is unlike any other. For me, it is the comforting melody that filled our home in Karachi’s bustling Defence neighbourhood. I remember once, as a child, waking up in the middle of a stormy night to the harsh sounds of thunder and rain pounding. I was scared, trembling under the covers. My mother came into my room, her voice soft and steady as she sang lullabies in Urdu, weaving words of comfort and safety. That voice was a beacon in the storm, a promise that I was not alone. AI can process voice patterns, replicate tones, and even mimic emotions, but it will never know the warmth and reassurance that a mother’s voice brings. It cannot feel the unconditional love wrapped within those words or the heartbeat that pounds in sync with a child’s fragile breathing. Yet, then there is the sting of a childhood embarrassment, a moment so raw and personal it lives with you forever. I remember the first time I tried to recite a song during our school’s annual function. I was nervous but eager, standing on the stage in front of my classmates and teachers. As I began, my voice cracked, and I stumbled over a few words. The room erupted in giggles, and I wanted to disappear into the wooden floor beneath me. That burning embarrassment taught me about vulnerability and courage in a way no textbook ever could.
AI will never blush, shrink back, or build resilience from such moments. It will never learn what it means to be painfully human. There’s a scar on my left forearm, a thin, pale line I earned one summer falling off my bicycle on the uneven roads of Karachi’s PECHS neighbourhood. At first, it was a source of frustration. I hated the bandages, the itching as the wound healed. But over time, that scar became a symbol, a reminder of youthful adventures and the courage to get back on the bike after a fall. It tells a story that no algorithm could ever recreate, a story of risk, pain, and growth. AI can simulate damage, repair, or wear, but it cannot own a history, cannot carry a tale of survival written on skin. The sense of smell is a gateway to memory in a way that defies explanation. I can still close my eyes and be transported back to my grandmother’s house in the lanes of Sargodha. The scent of old wood mingled with the aroma of cardamom-spiced chai and freshly baked naan wraps around me like a warm blanket. It is not just a smell; it is a feeling, a moment in time captured in my senses. AI may identify chemical compounds or match scents, but it will never experience the flood of emotions that a single whiff can unlock. It will never understand the bittersweet ache of nostalgia. Perhaps the most profound thing AI will never have is the person you become because somebody once believed in you. Growing up, I struggled with self-doubt and uncertainty about my path. But there was a teacher at my school in Karachi who saw something in me that I could not yet see in myself. She encouraged me to write, to express my thoughts without fear of judgment. Her belief was a catalyst that changed my life. AI, for all its power, lacks consciousness, self-awareness, and the capacity for personal growth born from human connection. It cannot be nurtured, inspired, or lifted by another’s faith. These experiences- the first memory, a mother’s voice, the sting of embarrassment, scars with stories, evocative scents, and the belief of others are the essence of being human. They are stitched into our identities, shaping our thoughts, emotions, and actions in ways no machine can emulate. I think about AI’s potential and its expanding role in our lives, from assisting with daily tasks to driving cars and diagnosing diseases. It offers incredible benefits and challenges us to rethink how we interact with technology. Yet, no matter how advanced AI becomes, it will always lack the intangible qualities that make life rich and meaningful. It does not dream, hope, remember, or feel. It does not have a past or a future shaped by relationships and experiences. In a city like Karachi, with its relentless energy and vibrant chaos, these human experiences are especially precious. The laughter echoing from street corners, the shared meals during Ramadan, the warmth of a neighbour’s smile- these moments cannot be codified or programmed. AI may be a powerful tool, but it is not a substitute for the human experience. It will never have a first memory to cherish, a mother’s voice to soothe, or a childhood embarrassment to overcome. It will never carry the stories written on our skin or be transported by the scent of a beloved home. And it will never become who it is because someone believed in it. These are the things AI will never have, and I, for one, am grateful for that.
