Honest Scrutiny: Why It’s Hard to Believe in Protest Right Now
From pink hats to soup dumplings, how resistance lost its edge in the age of content.
“Protest earlier today, then Din Tai Fung.”
It started with am innocent TikTok caption. It stared back at me, almost taunting. I haven’t been able to shake it for days. In the video, a young protester walks through a demonstration in Los Angeles, then cuts to a slow, indulgent pan of soup dumplings. Activism, it seems, was just another errand between errands. A pregame to pork buns.
It reminded me of another viral moment: a white woman earnestly suggesting that protests should be more kid-friendly. Her solution? A bouncy house. For the revolution.
She got dragged off the internet, of course. But the moment lingered. Because it said the quiet part out loud: for some people, protest isn’t supposed to be uncomfortable. It’s supposed to be curated. Instagrammable. Safe.
This is the HOAification of protest.
Hydration stations for your dog.
Curated Spotify playlists.
Pre-ripped tote bags.
“Revolution Vibes.”
That’s the energy that makes someone say, “Ugh, I should protest… I always feel better after.”
Like it’s hot yoga.
Like it’s church.
Like it’s a wellness ritual, or getting dressed up for Halloween.
That reminded me of something I’d just read. I’ve been slowly working through The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and one line hit harder than expected. Not because of what it meant in the 1960s, but because of what it foreshadowed in 2025.
In the book, there’s a striking chapter about the original March on Washington. The plan, organized by grassroots leaders like SNCC, was bold. Disruptive. A mass occupation of the capital that couldn’t be ignored.
But once the federal government caught wind of the momentum, it did what institutions always do: it absorbed the movement.
They brought in the figureheads. Offered money. Promised airtime. Rerouted the march. Neutered the message.
What began as pressure was transformed into performance.
Something safe. Something symbolic.
“What originally was planned to be an angry riptide, one English newspaper aptly described now as ‘the gentle flood.”
— Malcolm X, The Farce on Washington. 1964.
Because once a movement becomes palatable, it’s no longer dangerous.
And if it’s no longer dangerous, it’s no longer protest.
We’ve seen this playbook before. The 2017 Women’s March drew millions around the world and became a viral moment of protest aesthetics—pink knit hats, clever signs, and a sea of social media posts. But for all its size and energy, it was often critiqued for lacking demands, clear strategy, or follow-through. In hindsight, many organizers and attendees alike questioned whether the protest had become more symbolic than structural. A performance of unity, rather than a catalyst for it.
I was sitting on the couch with my girlfriend when the glitch hit me. We were watching Twitch. More specifically, Hasan Piker, known to his 30,000+ viewers as HasanAbi, livestreaming a protest in downtown L.A. He moved through the Arts District with a camera trailing behind, narrating the scene like a correspondent.
Then something strange happened: someone stopped him mid-stream… to take a selfie.
Then another.
And another.
As if it were Comic-Con, not a protest.
I looked over. “That’s wild,” I said. She nodded, unimpressed. (She likes Hasan.) But for a second, I didn’t know what we were watching anymore. It felt like the story was slipping away. Like whatever message this protest had started with was being clip farmed by streamers.
Clip farming
The practice of creating or repurposing short, attention-grabbing video clips—often out of context—to maximize views, engagement, and algorithmic reach, especially on TikTok, YouTube Shorts, and Instagram Reels.
Was this resistance?
Or was this just content?
To be fair, maybe it’s just generational. A younger cohort raised entirely online is used to being perceived.
Recorded.
Streamed.
Reacted to.
All the time.
Pew Research, 2023
• 90% of Gen Z uses social media daily
• Nearly half say they feel pressure to maintain a personal brand
That doesn’t mean they don’t care.
But it does mean that protest, for them, might naturally blend with performance.
“We’re at war with the camera.”
— Justin Scott, cultural commentator
And he’s right. Protests today aren’t just about justice. They’re about narrative.
And whoever controls the footage controls the truth.
And let’s be honest. The mainstream media isn’t doing us any favors. Even if we curated the most peaceful, picture-perfect serious march with every demand clearly laid out, all it takes is one police projectile, one scattered crowd, and suddenly the headline reads:
“CHAOS ERUPTS AT PROTEST.”
So I ask again:
Why is it hard to believe protests are working?
Not because people don’t care.
But because the message gets lost before it can land. And in a way the message almost never lands.
And for a generation that, in many ways, is standing up for collective causes more than any before, maybe the real question is:
Do we need a tone that actually matches the times?
Because Pedro Pascal sign is funny, but it’s not changing anything. Funny can only do so much.
In an era shaped by deepfakes, AI propaganda, and algorithmic manipulation, maybe the next wave of resistance won’t look like marching at all.
Maybe it looks like:
Cyber disruption
Coordinated boycotts
Blockchain whistleblowing
Digital sanctuary networks
Tech-savvy solidarity built for a world that’s no longer analog
And we’ve seen glimmers of this already.
During the height of the George Floyd protests in 2020, young activists used TikTok to flood police surveillance apps like iWatch Dallas with K-pop fancams, rendering them useless. That same summer, teens on TikTok famously inflated Trump’s Tulsa rally registration numbers to sabotage turnout. It was absurd. It was effective. And it proved that digital disruption, when coordinated, can undercut systems in real time.
The people will have to evolve.
The systems already have.
Otherwise, maybe we’re not trying to change the world at all.
Maybe, for some of us, protest has become just another stop between errands. A cosplay.
A moment of meaning wedged between weekend plans.
Either way, that’s okay.
But we should be honest about it.