The Revolution Will Be Hashtagged
Dear Comrade,
You always insisted the revolution wouldn’t be televised. I remember how passionately you argued it would happen quietly, organically, free from manipulation by media conglomerates and the click-driven cycles of social media. You believed it would blossom in the dark, far from spotlights and hashtags, far from corporate sponsors and branding opportunities. You envisioned underground pamphleteering, clandestine whispers of rebellion passed in secret. Well, you were half right and yet, completely wrong.
I write today not to mock your idealism. Well, maybe just a little. But rather to bitterly inform you that the revolution is indeed televised. In fact, it’s been televised in glorious 4K resolution, optimized for streaming, monetized by ad breaks, and meticulously tracked by algorithms that now commodify our every fleeting outrage.
Let’s rewind to the Met Gala, May 2024. A pristine gathering of social elites wrapped in silks and satins, indulging in conspicuous consumption against a backdrop of Palestinian bloodshed. It was the perfect storm, wasn’t it? Gaza in flames, Rafah bombarded, and celebrities flaunting $75,000 gowns. Predictably, social media erupted. #Blockout2024 was born.
"Let them eat cake," chirped influencer Haley Kalil, clad in designer finery, unwittingly channeling Marie Antoinette. Of course, she scrambled to delete the video when backlash surfaced, only to follow up with an empty apology and a recycled statement of solidarity. It was Exhibit A of our era’s profound shallowness.
And thus began the performance: the virtue signaling Olympics, where outrage was instant, fashionable, and profitable. Swiftly, hashtags multiplied like digital locusts, urging mass-blockings of Taylor Swift, Kim Kardashian, Zendaya. Icons whose sins were silence and carefully curated neutrality. They weren’t advocating genocide, mind you, merely opting to sit out the spectacle. Yet that was enough to trigger digital exile, as if unfollowing celebrities could somehow un-bomb Gaza.
A Redditor succinctly diagnosed this condition of collective slacktivism:
“People spend all their energy calling out celebs. Everyone’s already aware. Real protests, tangible actions—that’s where effort is needed. Yet here we are, curating blocklists and policing silence as if that’s revolutionary.”
You see, Comrade, activism didn’t die. It was simply adapted into content. We replaced marches with memes, solidarity with subtweets, boycotts with blocklists. It became easier and vastly more profitable to signal virtues than embody them. We traded real-world action for platform optimization, packaging moral outrage into neatly consumable snippets served between makeup tutorials and viral dance trends.
Brands, sensing blood in the water, wasted no time turning compassion into campaigns. Remember the "All Eyes on Rafah" AI-generated artwork, sanitized just enough for your Instagram feed? An exhibit of sanitized tragedy, trending for twenty-four hours, just long enough to feel involved but not enough to actually change anything. Limited-edition "solidarity merch" soon followed, complete with ceasefire pins and $50 "Resistance Tees," profits mysteriously disappearing into vague "awareness efforts." Activism now had a price tag and a limited print run.
Even celebrities who dared to speak up were punished for insufficiently authentic displays of grief. Lizzo donated, then posted, then was immediately chastised for performing solidarity. And yet, if she had remained silent, she would’ve been digitally guillotined anyway. It wasn't activism, just performative purity-testing.
But who benefits from this circus, Comrade? Certainly not Gaza. Instagram likes don’t translate to medical supplies. TikTok trends don’t build shelters. Blocking celebrities doesn’t rebuild demolished homes. The only winners here are the algorithms, the platforms selling our outrage back to us as neatly packaged premium content.
And so we find ourselves spectators to our own supposed revolution. We rally behind digital barricades, hurl hashtags instead of bricks, wage battles in comment sections while real-world suffering persists unabated. The revolution didn’t fail. It simply pivoted to a more lucrative model, neatly aligning activism with market interests. The invisible hand pats our backs as we collectively virtue-signal ourselves into oblivion.
Remember when activism required risk? When defiance came with consequences beyond unfollowing a pop star? Now we’re content with digital guillotines. Cutting off celebrities from our feeds, as though it equates to storming the Bastille. Revolutionary fervor has been sanitized, focus-grouped, and carefully packaged. It’s revolution-lite, rebellion without the inconvenience of leaving your couch.
I recall your warning vividly: “They’ll package the revolution and sell it back to us.” Well, here we are, purchasing our own outrage, carefully curated, algorithmically optimized, and utterly meaningless. We exchange real solidarity for performative gestures, genuine empathy for algorithm-driven "engagement," and tangible change for optics and feel-good campaigns.
So, dear Comrade, you were partly correct. The revolution is being televised. It's streaming on every screen, tracked in every feed, monetized in every moment of manufactured outrage. But rest assured, the real revolution—the uncomfortable, disruptive, genuine one you spoke of—won’t make prime time. It won’t trend on TikTok. It won’t be sponsored by anyone. Because true rebellion isn’t marketable. It won’t pass the brand-safety test. It won’t be aesthetically pleasing or neatly consumable.
The revolution you envisioned is still waiting in the wings, drowned out by the noise of our digital indignation. Until we stop treating activism as premium content, until hashtags become footnotes rather than centerpieces, we remain precisely where those in power want us. Angry yet passive. Aware yet inert. Revolutionaries confined to our screens.
I’d love to discuss this further. But I’ve got to go. My "Revolutionary Resistance" hoodie just arrived. Limited edition, of course. Proceeds go somewhere vague and reassuring.
Keep the faith, Comrade. The hashtags depend on it.
Yours in cynical camaraderie,
Jeff
