A t some point in my ten years of being a radio and television producer—calling politicians, wildfire experts, or survivors of the most harrowing experiences, asking them pressing questions about the world and their lives, then translating it all into a story that would air the next day—I grew tired of phone calls.
Then came the pandemic. I live alone and could communicate with people safely only by phone or video call, and I began to hate the immediacy. Now, my heart sinks almost every time my phone rings. Often I will let calls go to voicemail, where my greeting strongly suggests sending a text instead of leaving a message.
My favourite way of communicating is by voice note. Long before iMessage and WhatsApp could capture an instant voice message, one of my good friends and I would record audio on our phones and send the files via email as memory-rich attachments. I rejoiced when the apps introduced functions that allowed you to hold down the record button and speak while you walked or did the dishes (always with apologies for audio quality: “Sorry, this is a two out of ten production wise, but I’m making dinner for the kids!” my friend regularly says. No apology necessary, I say, even if I have to strain to make out some parts. I’m listening to the texture of her life, bearing witness to the small moments that make up her world.)
The audio messages are helpful for short bursts. Sometimes I just need to say, “Hey, I’m running late, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” or I want to record a song playing at a restaurant that makes me think of my dad. But with some friends, voice noting has become an extreme sport. It’s not unusual for me to send forty-five minutes of material—not-so-mini personalized podcasts, if you will.
What could we possibly, possibly talk about for so long? My favourite voice noters are people who listen to me babble about the perfect pasta I just had; the glow of a cotton-candy-pink sunset from my perch at the park; the triumph of a newly completed, almost-abandoned run; the minutiae of an interaction with a crush; the big questions I’m asking about love, work, and life. With these friends, I can unclasp the weight of the day from around my neck and lay it down, sonically, as if to say, “Can you look at this with me?”
I’ve come to see voices notes as the modern love letter, but instead of words on the page, so much is said in the hesitations, the silences, often followed by tears, the meanderings, the confessions in low, hushed tones. Through voice notes, I listen to the adhaan of fajr prayer in my hometown of Alexandria, Egypt, as a woman who helped raise me and my cousins wishes me a Ramadan Mubarak. The crackle of the muezzin on the loudspeaker underscores her well wishes and chides me gently for not checking on her more, imploring me to come visit again. Through voice notes, my friends take me with them on their stroller walks to the park. At the end, I hear them ask their children, “Do you want to say hi to auntie P?” The tiny little “no” or babbling approximation of a “hello” makes my heart burst.
I realize how ridiculous and indulgent it is to share every passing thought with friends who have busy lives. They’re professors and artists and mothers with dizzying to-do lists. But reciprocity and deep listening are cornerstones of the art of voice noting. After years of asking probing questions and subtle follow-ups of strangers, it’s a gift to have that returned.
Whether it takes us two hours or two weeks to respond, whether we’re on other sides of the same city or a world apart, what we’re giving each other is the space to say: “I’m here. I’m listening. And I’ve got all the time in the world for you.”
