In the sweltering summer of 1983, Seneca Falls, New York—a town steeped in the legacy of women’s rights—once again became a crucible of protest. Ten thousand women from around the world set up camp there, where they would remain for five months.
Amid the escalating tensions of a nuclear Cold War, their immediate target was the nearby Seneca Army Depot, believed to hold weapons of mass destruction. But their long-term mission was far greater: to dismantle a patriarchy that had silenced them, to resist a nuclear arms race that threatened humanity, and to forge a new path for peace.
This wasn’t a gathering of fleeting slogans or unbridled rage; the Seneca Women’s Encampment for a Future of Peace and Justice was a carefully engineered movement, a testament to the power of intentional and disciplined resistance. Guided by icons like Grace Paley, they held workshops teaching how militarism fractured lives and deepened inequalities, alongside peaceful yet powerful marches for peace.
Performance art and installations turned the encampment into a visceral experience, forcing attendees to confront the looming horror of nuclear war. Photographer Mima Cataldo documented it all, capturing the dignity, urgency, and quiet strength of a movement that would ultimately achieve what few protests do: lasting change. Visual displays, such as Cataldo’s photographs and the encampment’s art, were intentional forms of protest that invite deep reflection, transcending the often self-serving priorities of modern activism. The legacy of the Seneca Women’s Encampment culminated in the shutdown of the Seneca Depot’s Special Weapons area, effectively ending the Army’s Special Weapons mission there.
Constructing the Encampment by Mima Cataldo
March Against Nuclear War by Mima Cataldo
Now, decades later, that legacy feels disturbingly absent from many of today’s protests. In stark contrast to the impactful, organized efforts of 1983, recent college encampments worldwide have brought unstructured violence, drug scandals, and prejudice, overshadowing opportunities for dialogue or education.
These campus encampments, initially established as earnest responses to global crises, quickly devolved, becoming divisive at best, and destructive at worst. Swastikas defaced walls at major universities like UCLA, Stanford, and USC, daubed by students claiming solidarity with oppressed groups. Despite these extreme actions, very little was achieved in support of their cause. Instead, these protests alienated potential supporters, causing the public to associate their activism with blocked roads and swastika vandalism rather than humanitarian care. If previous generations could use impending war and nuclear chaos as fuel for earnest evolution, why does Gen-Z seem to struggle to do the same? Today’s young activists often prioritize confrontation and noise over constructive, well-thought-out action. According to a survey by the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression (FIRE) on pro-Palestine undergraduates, nearly half of these students believe burning the American flag is acceptable, while over a third are comfortable with defacing property if it advances their cause. But what tangible outcomes do these forms of protest actually achieve? By favoring visibility, at the expense of genuine impact, Gen-Z is reducing activism to little more than an aesthetic.
For a generation raised on social media, Gen-Z’s penchant for dead-end advocacy extends well beyond in-person events to their social media habits. According to a Pew Research survey, seventy percent of Americans who post political content on Instagram—a platform largely dominated by Gen-Z—do so because they feel obligation rather than genuine belief in its impact. Further, a Change Research poll found that while nearly forty percent of Gen-Z Americans have shared political posts online, fewer than half—only fifteen percent—have ever attended a public rally or demonstration. This disconnect reveals an inclination toward symbolic gestures over substantive action.
For those who do get involved beyond the screen, the motivation often stems from misguided righteous indignation, and fundamental misunderstanding of what constitutes productive activism. When extreme, performative acts like painting swastikas or burning American flags fit neatly into an Instagram feed and can easily be saved to “highlights,” they’re deemed activism enough. The more ostentatious a display the more views it will elicit, and the greater the illusion of influence— one that lacks the depth and purpose needed to drive real change.
This generation’s focus on visibility over impact can be understood through Harvard psychologist Dr. Jillian Jordan’s concept of “virtue signaling”— a way of expressing our beliefs not to instigate action but to manage how we’re perceived by others. Posting about politics does the job of maintaining appearances, while the push for real change becomes secondary. As long as the event we attended can be posted on Instagram or LinkedIn, many of us feel that’s enough.
Historically, successful activism hasn’t just been about being seen, but about being strategic. Civil rights activist and UCLA professor Paul Von Blum, who attended Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s March on Washington called the event “a model of extraordinarily rigorous organization,” something current protests are lacking. Whether young activists wish to funnel their passion into peaceful protest, modeled after change-makers like MLK, or even organized violence, inspired by revolutionaries like Malcolm X, any type of productive protest requires a targeted strategy, and what Von Blum calls “internal policing” and training.
Recalling his own 3 days of nonviolent training in the 60’s— a prerequisite for participating in Southern civil rights protests— Von Blum emphasized that “no one is intrinsically nonviolent.” Training, he argued, is essential to raise the likelihood that protestors “will act decently and intelligently, and stick to the core message.” Those who don’t stick to the message, he suggests, should be ‘removed.’ When protestors stray from the message, their actions risk overshadowing the cause, undermining its credibility and alienating potential allies.
Training begins internally. To spark genuine change, we must start by interrogating our own intentions. Are we pushing for progress, or are we merely curating an image of activism that aligns with fleeting social expectations? True activism demands we forge a vision that transcends the desire for validation. History has proven meaningful change doesn’t result from looking like an activist; but from doing the painstaking work, even when no one’s watching. We have to stop confusing visibility with impact.
The views expressed in this post reflect the views of the author(s) and not UCLA or ASUCLA Communications Board.
Images used with permission from author
