This opinion piece is inspired by a short critical article written by a friend from many moons ago, Seble Teweldebirehan. Sebli and I met in 2015 when we both attended an evening course at Addis Ababa University. As our workplaces were close to each other, we would often commute together, which extended our time to get to know each other and have intellectually and politically invigorating conversations. So, perhaps, we can consider this piece as somewhat of a continuation of those exchanges – just without the dreadful Meskel Square traffic jam!
Sebli’s article raises two key points. The first is the idea that we are in a hamster wheel of seasonal rage, which she has grown wary of because she sees no tangible change coming from it. The second, perhaps proposed as a solution, is that we must, she strongly suggests, centre rural women and girls and work to resolve the material conditions that leave them in perpetually vulnerable positions.
While I understand and agree with Sebli’s point, I also believe this framing alone risks overlooking essential aspects within the broader movement ecosystem. With that in mind, this is a “yes, and” article intended to widen the lens on her first point, and I hope to return to the second another time.
“A real movement must look beyond the headlines.”
This statement follows Sebli’s brief explanation of her fatigue with the same cycle of activism that follows a catastrophe and disappears with the spectacle, only to repeat itself with the next one that arrives. Although she was not specific about which type of activism she was referring to, based on her references to reactionary campaigns that follow viral stories and media spectacles, I assume it is in reference to the ever-evolving online space where a sudden burst of hashtags is mobilised on social media in solidarity with victims or survivors of extreme Gender- based Violence (GBV), including femicide.
Part of my reservation of online activism anywhere in the world, not just in Ethiopia, lies in that as well. The ephemeral nature of online activism often follows emotionally provoking incidents and personalised frames that rarely galvanise against structural and systemic letdowns harboured within the very institutions that we are not always willing to hold accountable. Emotions are integral parts of any movement – anger often motivates us to confront power, and that is the same energy mobilised during these peak hashtag mobilisations. However, in our case, although not unique, the anger is often contained in the online space and subsides with the next spectacle that takes the stage.
This is also what Sebli is flagging for us, as she says, “crisis-driven mobilisation gives visibility, but it doesn’t build lasting progress.” In fact, what she raises here is something that has been repeatedly echoed by many throughout the years, including myself, who felt that my online activism from years ago was futile and a waste of time and energy. But then I ask – what if that is all these online campaigns are meant to do: create visibility and mobilise emotions for their audience, i.e., people who have the privilege and interest in accessing the platforms used by the same activists?
Here, it is essential to note that only 7.5% of the total 135 million Ethiopia’s population has a social media presence, out of the 21% of the overall population with internet access. Of course, I acknowledge that those 7.5% with social media access also have their own social circle of influence, where the discourse they engage in makes its way to those beyond the online space. But then again, would that make it irrelevant? Should we not appraise it within its own circle of influence – what it is meant to do, what it is doing, and with whom it is engaging?
My observation is that we place unrealistic expectations on online or seasonal campaigns, thereby extending the responsibility to speak for all Ethiopian women. Yet, the reality is that these are targeted digital mobilisations against overt forms of GBV and femicide, predominantly in urban areas. With this logic, I think we are barking up the wrong tree when we expect online, individual, or concerted activism to resolve an issue that is far knottier and pervasive than what we often make it out to be.
However, a criticism that primarily centres on activists or what they are doing wrong can easily become a smokescreen that obscures what is revealed through the backlash and trolls. I am not, by any means, saying activists should be spared criticism. But our framework must be flexible enough to sometimes decentre activists and campaigns and be critical of the society that produces both the activism and the backlash. After all, the online space is not a collection of aliens; it is we who make it – both in defiance and in violence.
So, instead, can we ask, what does the way the digital public treats online feminists or women’s rights advocates tell us about structural misogyny?
And, if it dares to do that in public, what is it capable of doing in private or in systems that we are not yet holding accountable? What is it capable of doing against those whose oppressions are far more intersectional than just their gender identity? While we are concerned that online activists are not asking the right questions and not representing the right demographics, their engagement and relationship with the digital public actually mirror a bleak reality: it exposes the deeply ingrained misogyny harboured in and by the very power structures, systems, and institutions we accuse them of neglecting.
Suppose we start working backwards, beginning with the series of backlashes some online activists have faced in recent years, even just for speaking against GBV and femicide, which most would agree, in principle, is unacceptable. In that case, we can see how far the digital community is willing to go to intimidate, threaten, and punish these women who did not speak to them, and to power, politely.
This includes not just the direct violent attacks but also, to borrow a political communication term, ‘consent manufactured’ by influential thought leaders – online influencers and institutional leaders alike – to legitimise violence. Although I concur with Sebli’s call for a strategic and coordinated effort to challenge structural and systemic inequalities rather than focusing on “crisis-driven mobilisation”. I also think such criticism still hinges on the unrealistic expectation we place on online activism, which again obscures the very structural misogyny that turns back to engulf the space, both on and offline. In fact, this is not only about activists, but also about the nightmare of simply being a woman in online spaces, although the magnitude of this issue is particularly severe for women with greater visibility. A series of studies conducted by the Centre for Information Resilience (CIR) documents the extent of this reality with empirical findings.
In contrast, when countless men in these spaces spew hate, bicker, and hurl targeted insults at others without mincing their words, people rarely confront them with the same level of disrespect and threat these women receive. People may disagree with one’s style of activism or idea, and criticism is necessary. Still, the level of threat and intimidation is not only disproportional but also exposes an underlying contempt for women and the impulsive urge to control them.
Another illustrative example is a recent TikTok post that asked people what they would do if the law were suspended for a day. Shockingly, mainly because they indeed admitted this in public, hundreds of men gloated about the gruesome things they would do to women. The question asked what you would do if the law were suspended for just a day, with no mention of gender relations. Yet, many verbalised their egregious fantasies of rape, killing, humiliating, and violating women by all means possible. If that post revealed anything, it is the darkest underbelly of misogyny where the indescribable contempt for women lives.
We cannot separate these dynamics from the reasons we continue to mourn the endless victims of GBV and femicide, girls are unable to access education, mothers remain in abusive homes – despite their geographical locations, they provide unpaid care work like clockwork – despite the thanklessness of those they serve. Women continue to suffer from poverty more than men, they continue to pick up the pieces when the bullets stop, they continue to give life even when men in suits are working hard to have their fundamental maternal healthcare rights rolled back, the list goes on.
While we must rightfully scrutinise online activism and one-off campaigns – not only their impact but also the politics and frames they (re)produce – part of the reality is also that they are unveiling layers of systemic and structural issues we have yet to grapple with. I believe we can gain more insight by sometimes decentring the activists or the “crisis-based mobilisations” as their visibility in fact reveals more, allowing us to evaluate the movement ecosystem as a whole, along with the complex power structures that animate it. My invitation is thus for us to consider the entire ecosystem more expansively. In this way, perhaps, Sebli’s call for sustained and coordinated movement, which many of us share, could also make room for paying equal attention to how the very problem we are hoping to resolve exposes itself in public as it ruthlessly tries to silence and punish those who call it out.
Selam Mussie is a gender and media professional who wears many hats in the field. These days, she mostly wears her researcher and writer hat, focusing on African women and digital media. In her current projects, she explores the role of digital media in African feminist movements, particularly as they navigate political differences and infrastructural constraints. She also remains engaged in a range of initiatives that intersect with these themes.