I've been watching you scroll. We all have, really—caught in this strange digital theatre where moral positions cost nothing more than a thumb swipe and a share button. You've probably posted about Gaza, climate change, or social justice this week. Maybe you've added a flag to your profile picture or shared an infographic that made you feel momentarily righteous.
But here's what's keeping me awake at night: we've created the most sophisticated system of moral laundering in human history. We've convinced ourselves that digital activism equals real action, that viral outrage substitutes for actual change, and that our curated conscience somehow absolves us from the messiness of authentic engagement.
Let me throw three uncomfortable truths at you before we dive deeper. First, your social media activism is often just performative therapy—you're treating your own anxiety about the world's problems rather than addressing the problems themselves. Second, the algorithm rewards moral exhibitionism over meaningful action—the most inflammatory posts get the most engagement, creating a race to the bottom of productive discourse. Third, your digital outrage might actually be making you less likely to act in real life—research suggests that expressing moral positions online can create a psychological sense of having "done something," reducing motivation for actual engagement.
Now, before you close this tab in indignation, hear me out. I'm not attacking your concern for justice or your desire to make a difference. I'm questioning whether we've built a system that channels our moral energy into the digital equivalent of shouting into a void whilst the real world burns around us.
The Great Disconnect
The evidence is everywhere once you start looking. We share articles about climate change from our air-conditioned offices whilst driving SUVs to buy fast fashion. We post passionate defences of workers' rights whilst ordering from companies we know exploit their staff. We express solidarity with refugees whilst voting for politicians who criminalise immigration.
Michele Serra captured this perfectly when he wrote about our "sostanziale solitudine" (substantial solitude) in facing global problems . We're overwhelmed by the constant bombardment of crises, and social media has become our pressure valve—a way to acknowledge the horror without actually engaging with it.
But here's the psychological trap: our brains can't distinguish between performed morality and lived morality. When we share that post about human rights violations, our neural reward systems activate as if we'd taken meaningful action. We get the dopamine hit of moral righteousness without the uncomfortable reality of sacrifice or sustained effort.
The Algorithm of Hypocrisy
Social media platforms have weaponised our moral instincts. They've discovered that nothing drives engagement quite like manufactured outrage and performative virtue. The result? A system that rewards the loudest, most polarising voices whilst marginalising nuanced, constructive discussion.
Consider how we've responded to Gaza. As one analysis noted, we've created "una sensibilità selettiva alle vittime" (selective sensitivity to victims) —expressing absolute outrage about specific events whilst remaining remarkably tolerant of systematic oppression. We share posts condemning violence whilst remaining silent about the arms sales, political complicity, and economic structures that make such violence possible.
This isn't just about international politics—it's about the fundamental structure of how we process moral information in the digital age. We've become consumers of injustice rather than agents of change, treating global suffering as content to be engaged with rather than reality to be confronted.
The Double Life Delusion
Perhaps most troubling is how we've normalised the "doppio sé" (double self) that my earlier LinkedIn post explored Pubblica _ LinkedIn.pdf). We've convinced ourselves that our digital personas and our actual lives can operate by different rules—that the person who shares anti-corporate posts can work for exploitative companies, that the climate activist can live a high-carbon lifestyle, that the human rights advocate can remain silent when their own government commits atrocities.
This compartmentalisation isn't just personal hypocrisy—it's a form of collective self-deception that prevents real progress. When we separate our stated values from our lived actions, we create a society built on performance rather than principle.
The psychology here is crucial. As research shows, hypocrisy functions as "una strategia per manipolare la realtà " (a strategy for manipulating reality) —not just external reality, but our own understanding of ourselves. We craft online identities that reflect our aspirational values rather than our actual choices, creating a feedback loop of self-deception.
The Anaesthetic Effect
Here's what really concerns me: I believe our digital activism has become a form of moral anaesthetic. By channeling our outrage into social media, we've created a system that makes us feel engaged whilst actually diminishing our capacity for sustained, uncomfortable action.
Think about it—when did you last attend a local council meeting? Join a campaign that required showing up repeatedly? Have a difficult conversation with someone whose views differ from yours? Engage with an issue that couldn't be reduced to a shareable infographic?
We've mistaken information consumption for education, sharing for action, and online community for real solidarity. The result is what scholars call "slacktivism"—but it's worse than that. It's not just lazy activism; it's activism that actively works against real engagement by providing a psychological substitute for it.
The Institutional Collapse
This individual hypocrisy reflects a broader institutional failure. As Michele Serra observed, we've lost our traditional "punti di riferimento" (reference points) —the institutions, ideologies, and communities that once provided frameworks for understanding and action. In their absence, social media has become our primary sense-making mechanism, despite being structurally incapable of producing coherent responses to complex problems.
When the United Nations is ineffective, when national governments prioritise politics over principle, when media organisations chase clicks over truth, we're left with platforms designed for engagement rather than enlightenment. The result is a public sphere that rewards performance over substance, emotion over analysis, and tribal loyalty over moral consistency.
The Cost of Performative Morality
This isn't just about individual psychology—it's about collective capacity. When our moral energy gets channeled into digital performance, we lose our ability to build the sustained movements necessary for real change. We become a society of moral spectators, watching the world's problems unfold through our screens whilst remaining fundamentally disconnected from the work of addressing them.
The victims of this disconnection aren't just distant—they're our neighbours dealing with housing insecurity whilst we share posts about wealth inequality. They're local workers facing exploitation whilst we tweet about labour rights. They're young people struggling with mental health whilst we post about the importance of community support.
Towards Authentic Engagement
So what's the alternative? I'm not suggesting we abandon digital communication—that would be both impractical and counterproductive. But I am proposing we develop a more honest relationship with our online moral expressions.
First, practice alignment consistency. Before sharing content about an issue, ask yourself: what have I done about this in my actual life? If the answer is nothing, consider that your first step might be private research and reflection rather than public proclamation.
Second, prioritise local over global. It's easier to feel passionate about distant injustices than to engage with the complex realities in our immediate communities. But meaningful change almost always starts with the latter.
Third, choose depth over breadth. Rather than expressing concern about every global issue, pick one or two that genuinely move you and commit to sustained engagement—not just online, but in the messy, uncomfortable world of actual organising and advocacy.
Fourth, embrace the discomfort of nuance. Real problems don't fit into shareable formats. They require sustained attention, complex analysis, and uncomfortable compromises. If your moral positions can all be expressed in memes, they're probably not moral positions—they're tribal markers.
The Mirror Test
Here's my challenge to you: for the next week, before sharing anything about injustice or moral issues, ask yourself this question: "If someone examined my actual life—my spending, my time allocation, my daily choices—would they see evidence that I genuinely care about this issue?"
This isn't about perfection—we're all hypocrites to some degree, trying to live up to ideals we don't always meet. It's about honesty. About recognising when our digital personas have become divorced from our lived realities. About understanding that authentic moral engagement requires more than anger and good intentions—it requires sacrifice, sustained effort, and the willingness to be uncomfortable.
The world doesn't need more digital activists. It needs more people willing to do the unglamorous work of showing up, staying engaged, and building the relationships that make change possible. Your timeline might not remember that work, but your conscience will. And more importantly, so will the people whose lives actually change because you chose authenticity over performance.
The question isn't whether you care about justice—I believe you do. The question is whether you care enough to let that concern shape not just what you share, but how you live.
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