Something like this is tailor-made for teenagers who just barely understand the consequences of the Internet, are viciously insecure about themselves, and have a tendency to take it out on other while hiding behind a pseudonym. Shadow and apps like it create the false expectation of privacy.
There's nothing new about the human urge to share information and secrets – just ask your average 14-year-old what, exactly, she's doing on her phone all the time. A large part of what the Internet has accomplished in the last two decades is making that far easier to do, with at least some surface-level anonymity.
Shadow is just another example in this long line of networking apps intended to keep your identity a secret while letting you share all the things you're too afraid to say out loud. While Snapchat lets you send temporary photos to people you know (and like), and Twitter lets you engage with people you don't know (who you are soon to hate), Shadow lets you do a bit of both. It's a private messaging service like any other, except it keeps the sender anonymous save their gender. Do you have a burning secret you need to tell your best friend? Do you hate your sister's husband and need to find a way to tell him without it coming back to you? Are you in love with your podiatrist and you just need him to know? You're in the right place.
In theory, Shadow (currently only available in the U.S.) allows your friends to tell you wonderful little secrets about how they feel: how attractive you are, how smart you're coming off, how brave you were that day. Their website shows an anonymous text saying, "Every day in class I can't stop gazing into your eyes!" The app accomplishes little more than what a burner e-mail account does, but isn't it a cute, sweet idea? Who wouldn't like little compliments like that flooding our inbox with no emotional consequences for the sender?
But it's also clear who Shadow and apps like it are targeting, and it's not adults looking to avoid conflict. Something like this is tailor-made for teenagers who just barely understand the consequences of the Internet, are viciously insecure about themselves, and have a tendency to take it out on other while hiding behind a pseudonym. Shadow and apps like it create the false expectation of privacy, that it's possible to send something out in the digital ether and not run the risk of it coming back to slap you in the face – particularly when they're so clearly targeted at younger users. Sure, anything with even the best intentions can be subverted for the worst: Whisper, another app with a similar conceit where users can share things anonymously, has become a hotbed for sad, scuzzy men to scam on young girls for their nude photos. But it seems that Shadow barely thought this through: they're offering yet another platform that thrives on the false conceit of anonymity and backroom tittering.
It seems even Facebook is getting in on the anonymous tip, there are reports it is creating a stand-alone app that lets users interact without using their real names. Since its inception, Facebook has pushed for users to be who they say they are online, and even recently tried to ban the use of adopted names instead of legal ones. (This, predictably, gathered the ire of drag performers, the LGBQ community, and transgender people, whose identities are not reflected by their legal documents. Facebook eventually overturned their decision, perhaps spurred by the fear of losing members to Ello – hey, remember Ello?) It's a marked shift for Facebook to look into not just an app guided by pseudonyms, but an app guided by anonymity.
The response to a lack of privacy and security, for some reason, is a push to convince consumers that it's possible for the Internet to be ephemeral. It's not, or at least not yet. That's why a group of online jackals can target the iClouds of female celebrities who thought (foolishly, apparently) that the photos on their phones were for privy eyes only. Or why it's possible for someone to turn on your webcam remotely without your consent so that they can watch you watch Bridalplasty on Netflix. Or why if someone looks hard enough, they'll find the blog I hosted when I was 13 about all about the girls I hated at my junior high. (Please don't look for it, I beg of you.)
Anonymity on the web is a privilege, and not one that everyone preserves. Ephemerality on the Web is even harder to come by, and sites or apps that promise such freedom are likely lying to you. The counter-effect to your every keystroke and Facebook check-in being tracked shouldn't be setting up the unrealistic expectation that your online presence could vanish just because some company says so.
No one understands the need for anonymous online catharsis quite like a child of the Internet. If you were born any time around or after 1989 or so, a significant portion of your life was dominated by personalized Geocities pages, MySpace top 8 friends-drama, and Nexopia accounts where you posted your favourite – if not most depressing – song lyrics. It was likely a lot easier to be anonymous online 10 years ago, but like everything else in the world, the Internet is growing up, and it can't promise you what it used to.
Besides, not everyone deserves anonymity.
A few months ago, a former acquaintance of my partner got a hold of my personal e-mail address and sent me a string of threatening and aggressive e-mails. I'm no trained hacker, but after two e-mails, I found her home address, her place of employment and her husband's phone number. When confronted, she was profoundly humiliated and baffled that anyone managed to find her.
Unsurprisingly, the e-mails stopped once she knew I could put a name and face to a pseudonym and avatar.
Because even though something may feels anonymous, it rarely ever is.