#WokeGirlSummer

The blue wave began almost as soon as we stepped off campus. As reports spread across the Internet about the brutal military crackdowns in Khartoum, Sudan on June 3, variations of an Instagram story slide began to circulate. “Screenshot and set as your display picture,” the steel blue slide read. “Let’s paint Sudan Blue.” Most people initially followed up with screenshots or links to informative articles and ways to help. I hopped on the bandwagon relatively early; after all, I was convinced that while Sudan was in a media and internet blackout, “we all need[ed] to weaponize our social media presence”—a statement I proudly shared on my own story, following up with a document of useful links that a legitimate activist had created and shared. Almost overnight, everyone’s profile picture had turned into the same hue, and story after story was all a different iteration of the same slide and idea. I soon learned that the shade of blue was a tribute to Mohamed Hashim Mattar, one of the protesters killed in the crackdown. His profile picture was this shade of blue when he died. However, as the blue profile picture went from standing out to becoming the norm, I was intrigued by those who changed their profile picture without posting anything else on their profile. A few friends messaged me from their blue profiles that they didn’t really understand what was happening in Sudan. Meanwhile, a select few created and shared memes about how “Instagram activists” thought they were saving the world by changing their profile picture, garnering mild controversy. More confusion ensued as many people began to re-share on their story one specific post from @sudanmealproject. The account, which was linked to no organization, had one post: “For every person who follows and shares this on their story, we will provide one meal to starving Sudanese children.” The post quickly racked up millions of likes and received extensive attention. However, under scrutiny, the account was evidently suspicious. Not only was there no credible evidence that the account was donating any money, the notion that “starving Sudanese children” were the ones that needed help was completely misleading. Although poverty may be an issue in Sudan, the pressing, major struggle of the people was a democratic uprising against an oppressive regime, not a famine. The account either missed or ignored the more complex crux of the issue, and instead, merely played into the stereotype that the whole continent of Africa is starving. Sudan Meal Project went as far as to share another post claiming that, “More than six million people need[ed] urgent food assistance” in Sudan, when really, this figure was accurate for the entirely different country of South Sudan. As more people began to doubt the legitimacy of its claim, the account shut down within a few days of starting. Interestingly, many people who were otherwise silent about the crisis had swiftly shared this completely illegitimate post. How can an account with no credibility receive so much more attention than an account with genuine ways to help? This question led me to dissect others’ intentions—as well as my own—in changing my profile picture or even sharing resources.  I’ll reluctantly admit that at least a part of my intention in posting was undoubtedly performative. Although I convinced myself that my actions were genuine, in hindsight, I wonder about the effect my posts had on the crisis as opposed to my own clout. Yes, the Instagram schtick was a very effective way to raise awareness, but were we all truly informed about and invested in the cause if nearly everyone had turned away from the solid blue shade by the time the Sudanese army and civilians finally signed a power-sharing deal in August? I didn’t see anyone post updates on the situation after about two weeks since the initial wave. How can we assert that our support was genuine if we did not derail our lives in any way for the cause, and actually lost interest before it ended? A post I saw more recently on Instagram said that the profile picture trend made “the masses complacent, reducing their action to a socialized and moralistic fad they extract satisfaction from by participating in vocalizing public support for the cause, when in actuality, what they need to do is actually provide donation links, volunteer or work to educate others.” This bold statement helped everything click together for me—we were all privileged enough to free ourselves of guilt by tapping our screens in the comfort of our own homes without losing anything. We could proudly label ourselves as activists just by “spreading awareness” within our small social media audiences.  I began to examine other trends on Instagram with this similarly critical perspective. Perhaps the blue movement really spawned more activity, or perhaps I’ve just become more aware, but it seems that more people are regularly posting about crises and injustices on their stories now. The Hong Kong protests, the Kashmir crackdown and most recently, the fires in the Amazon, have all been met with passion and hashtags on Instagram stories.  I soon found myself sharing statements that questioned the motivation behind what others were doing and more importantly, not doing, through social media.  Stories of the Sudan crackdown and Amazon fires were often accompanied by the sentiment that people should be diverting more attention to these issues than “that empty building in Paris,” referring to the Notre Dame fire. While the Sudan crackdown and the Hong Kong protests coincided, I posted a note on my story urging people to question why they cared more about one democratic movement over another. A more complex example: slides mourning the Amazonian fires were met with criticism along the lines of, “You’re a hypocrite if you’re posting about the Amazon while eating beef! The main cause of the fires is cattle ranching.” I quickly saw a de facto response to these posts: “The problem is not individual diets, it is the industries. The Amazon is burning because of fascism and capitalism!”  It’s been fascinating to see how Instagram activism is often a competition about who has the deepest understanding of the world’s injustices and who offers the most radical solutions.   But relying on social media to raise awareness, direct people to resources or even promote political discourse has dangerous consequences, as I think we all witnessed this summer.  First of all, disinformation and irresponsible reporting is rampant. After all, many accounts are anonymous and reposts are uncredited. But our attention spans on Instagram are ridiculously short, in respect to both individual posts and news cycles. Bold claims that are easy to understand go viral much more easily than lengthy, nuanced stances and whole topics are sidelined in the mass conscience within a week. So, may the most simple and sensational post of the day win! Moreover, under these circumstances, it’s more likely than ever that well-intentioned donations end up in the hands of opportunistic scammers, especially since Instagram is an environment where an account seems legitimate if it has enough followers. This is detracting attention from genuine offline organizations and activism routes. Lastly, people are often less thoughtful and more brash when typing their opinions as opposed to when they’re communicating with someone face-to-face. Short, controversial statements may be harming discourse and amplifying misunderstanding.  I regret some of my posts this summer; even though everything I posted may have been okay in their own right, by virtue signaling and looking for validation that I was “woke” enough, I definitely contributed to an unhealthy culture of Instagram-dependent activism. “Spreading awareness” online is not inherently bad and can even serve as an effective tool, but only when we’re smart, thoughtful and sincere about it. When we see a catchy, compelling post, we should stop and ask ourselves before clicking on the paper airplane icon: who, and how, am I helping?