The welcome irony is that Martin Niemöller’s words about not speaking out are everywhere. If you were not already familiar with First They Came, his urging of resistance in the face of tyranny and persecution, from history lessons or documentaries on the Holocaust, you will be from countless Instagram feeds during the past three weeks.
Niemöller’s words, repurposed from a speech he gave in 1946, are a cautionary tale and mea culpa, deploring his own inertia in the face of Hitler’s growing persecution of minority groups (the majority of victims, of course, Jews). His words, along with the Dietrich Bonhoeffer quote, “Silence in the face of evil is itself evil”, have spread on social platforms following the latest outbreak of war between Israel and Hamas.
It’s hard to argue with Niemöller or Bonhoeffer and the belief that, as the saying goes: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” I agree entirely with this view of moral abdication. And yet, I hesitate to see the value in admonishments during the current conflict towards those who have kept their counsel online – from celebrities such as Jewish actor Noah Schnapp, who declared his feeds were “chillingly quiet” following Hamas’s attacks on Israel, to Palestinian friends and internet strangers proclaiming that “the silence is deafening” after Israel’s bombardment of Gaza.
It is undeniable that today, social media is one of the most effective means, or perhaps even the most effective means, of having one’s voice heard. Social platforms have democratised influence and lessened the power of cultural, media and political gatekeepers. If social media is the modern agora, then criticism of those not speaking out on important issues seems valid – especially if one is a public figure with a large social media following.
It’s also true that social media can have, and has had, real-world progressive effects – in particular, the organisation of the Black Lives Matter movement after the killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery and Michael Brown. However, the related but separate phenomenon of passive “tragedy-posting”, as I have come to think of it, is not clearcut. After Floyd’s murder, there was a trend of posting black squares on Instagram. It seemed trivial and futile; a low-effort performative gesture, taking up space that would be more effectively utilised by others. On the other hand, I was concerned that not following suit would signify indifference, a lack of allyship. There is no denying that the types of tragedies that gain most mainstream attention adhere to the prejudicial hierarchies that western countries have established, so the need to document and express solidarity with suffering is understandable.
That I attended protests seemed to be of greater significance, but the online sharing of this too wasn’t straightforward. Sharing on social media has become the new iteration of the philosophical query of a tree falling in the forest: if you do something and don’t post about it, did it really happen? There was a part of me that wanted to push back against this. But the more concrete action did seem important to document, to contribute to a mass demanding of change.
Most of the time, many of us who live in stable, secure countries can take a break from the horrors of the world. Less so if one lives in Gaza. Less so if one is the descendant of Holocaust survivors with relatives living in Israel. Perhaps then, posting something – anything – even if it seems the lowest common denominator action, remains important. It is both the least we can do and – in cases where we feel helpless, or can’t afford to donate to causes, or aren’t able to attend protests – the most.
But Israel-Palestine is a complex, 75-year-old conflict, in a part of the world divided by multiple factions and allegiances. While it’s clear that anyone possessing basic human decency condemns the slaughter of innocents, I’ve heard from individuals who haven’t felt able to post on the matter because they feel ill-informed and are scared of making a mistake on a subject of gravitas in an unforgiving internet culture.
As Jon Ronson wrote in his brilliant book, So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, people can be dragged for the tiniest indiscretions or misunderstandings, and I don’t feel it is constructive to criticise those who feel uncertain – although I do think that uncertainty can act as an incentive for people to educate themselves. I know what I think about this conflict; not everybody does. Likewise, if a person is privileged enough to turn away and does so in order to protect their mental health (moderators and foreign correspondents get trauma training; the rest of us, increasingly exposed to harrowing images of conflict, do not) or because they are busy juggling work and kids, it doesn’t make them callous.
But while “virtue signalling” has become a cynical phrase of the right, along with “woke” as a pejorative term (the idea that people might genuinely care about the world! Outrageous!), the critique of certain forms of tragedy-posting as performative – whether by individuals or brands – isn’t entirely unearned. I still remember the ride-sharing apps that changed the cars on their maps to the French tricolour after the Charlie Hebdo attack. There’s something gross about condolences becoming commercialised and monetised.
To post or not to post, then, that is the question. Whether the answer is an accurate assessment of a person’s views, complicity or morality is another one altogether.
Hannah Jane Parkinson is a Guardian columnist
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