The digital resurrection

We are not made to die, but to be born, Hannah Arendt argues. But, in fact, we begin to die the very moment we are born. Although it may be difficult to accept, our life will inevitably end in the arms of death. Faced with this threatening destiny, humanity has managed to create stories that soothe the fear of finitude. Historically, different spiritual and religious traditions have developed narratives of hope, expressed in promises of life beyond death, such as the Christian resurrection, characteristic of the Western world, or reincarnation, rooted in Eastern traditions. Holy Week culminates with Easter Sunday, a feast that embodies the hope of rebirth, of not dying.

In a society in which the great religious stories have lost their centrality, faith does not fade away, but it movesNow it is technology, transformed into a new oracle of promises, that takes on the role of responding to classic human aspirations. The disturbing dream of digital resurrection. What until recently seemed like science fiction, such as continuing to communicate with someone who has already died, is beginning to become part of the most tangible reality. Through social media posts, surprisingly believable digital human replicas are being created.

This new scenario is no longer just a possibility, but a spreading practice, backed by an economic machine that seeks to normalize it and turn it into a business. Funerals have already been seen in which the deceased participates through an interactive avatar, and thousands of people pay technology companies to hold conversations with a digital clone of a deceased loved one. Holograms have also been used to revive deceased artists on stage, blurring the lines between life and death. This entire catalog, constructed with algorithms, is grouped under the label of digital resurrection, a suggestive expression that sounds good but fits poorly with the context from which it derives its meaning. Strictly speaking, resurrection, in the religious sense, implies a complete restoration of the human being in another, transcendent world, and not a partial, programmed, and fictitious return to this one. What technology offers today is, at most, a form of digital immortality, designed for those who find it difficult to bear the absence imposed by death, but it does not revive those who have lost their lives.

The rise of generative AI represents both a promise and a problem. In the case of digital resurrection, it seems to provoke more conflicts than it seeks to resolve. Virtually bringing the dead back to life can interfere with the natural grieving process. Ultimately, this new technology is misleading because, in attempting to bring us closer to those who are no longer with us, it reminds us more intensely of their absence. Furthermore, in situations of emotional fragility, it is easy to confuse the digital representation with the real person. An avatar or hologram is not the person we loved, but rather an artificially recreated voice and image. No matter how refined the systems, no algorithm can replicate the consciousness, intimacy, or unique essence of a life. This algorithm-generated simulation can lead the deceased to say things they would never have thought or wanted to say. Therefore, digitally recreating someone without their consent is a violation of their privacy, a right that must be protected while we live, but also when we die.

Pain is fertile ground for business. And the digital resurrection industry knows it. Exploiting grief, it offers digital recreations as consolation, but what it sells is an illusion—yes, a sophisticated, expensive, and potentially absorbing one. Every minute spent on these artificial replicas is time taken from the living, from those close to us who hope to experience life-giving experiences. Cicero once wrote that it is the memory of the living that sustains the life of the dead. In a matter as delicate as this, it is better to heed the wisdom of the Roman thinker than to rely on AI chips.