The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (It Will Be Streamed)

In 1970, Gil Scott-Heron told us the revolution would not be televised. He wasn’t just warning us about media censorship – he was reminding us that real change doesn’t happen in front of an audience. It happens in the streets, in conversation, in small, radical acts of resistance that don’t fit neatly into a broadcast-ready narrative. It happens when we stop consuming revolution as content and start living it as process.

Fifty years later, we’re no longer tuning in – we’re scrolling. And the revolution? It’s streaming.

At first glance, the digital age appears to have democratized resistance. Platforms like Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok allow activists to share raw footage of injustice in real time, spread calls to action across continents, and amplify marginalized voices without needing permission from corporate media. During the height of the Black Lives Matter protests in 2020, videos captured by bystanders shook the world and inspired global uprisings. The Arab Spring was fueled by hashtags, memes, and livestreams. Protesters from Iran to Minneapolis have used encrypted messaging and social media to coordinate actions, raise funds, and expose brutality. The ability to organize online has become a lifeline – and, in many cases, a matter of survival.

But with that shift in medium comes new complications. As resistance becomes more visible, it also becomes more easily aestheticized. A revolutionary message, stripped of its political weight, can become a trending audio. An activist slogan, once charged with urgency, becomes a cute tote bag. Movements are flattened into moods. The algorithm doesn’t care about justice – it cares about engagement.

This is the paradox of modern activism: platforms that offer visibility also invite erasure. Meaning gets diluted by virality. Posts that challenge power are shadowbanned, reported, or buried, while corporations appropriate protest language to sell sneakers. Surveillance becomes more sophisticated, with facial recognition software scraping protest footage and governments monitoring activist accounts.

Those most at risk – queer, trans, Black, Indigenous, undocumented organizers – bear the brunt of this double exposure.

And then there’s the question of performance. When activism becomes something to post about, it risks becoming something done for the post. Social capital is gained by expressing the “right” politics, often in the most polished or aesthetically pleasing format possible. We see carousel infographics shared thousands of times without anyone reading the sources, or people posting black squares instead of showing up for mutual aid. Well-meaning gestures become empty gestures when they stop at the screen.

This doesn’t mean digital activism is inherently hollow. The internet has enabled life-saving work. Crowdfunding for bail and medical expenses, connecting isolated organizers, exposing abuse – all of these things matter deeply. The point isn’t to reject the digital, but to resist mistaking the screen for the struggle. Gil Scott-Heron wasn’t saying “turn off the TV.” He was saying: don’t mistake representation for revolution.

Real revolution still demands discomfort. It asks us to show up in ways that are inconvenient, unglamorous, often unrecognizable to the scrolling eye. That might look like having difficult conversations with friends. Donating consistently instead of just during a trending moment. Reading beyond headlines. Volunteering behind the scenes. Showing up again, and again, and again, even when no one’s filming.

We must remember that change isn’t something we watch – it’s something we do. Streaming can be a spark, but the fire burns offline.

So yes, the revolution is being streamed – but that doesn’t mean it’s happening on your screen. It’s still happening in kitchens and basements, in libraries and shelters, in whispered strategy and shouted chants. The revolution isn’t curated. It’s messy. It’s slow. It’s real.

And you have to actually live it.