When the Ferguson protests erupted in 2014, Twitter became a lifeline. Livestreams from cell phones documented what cable news wouldn’t show. Hashtags like #BlackLivesMatter, #HandsUpDontShoot, and #SayHerName carried the chants of the streets to millions around the globe. The digital sphere wasn’t just commentary—it was the front line.

Fast forward to 2025, and that front line is under siege. Social media platforms are laying off trust and safety teams, rewriting moderation policies, and quietly changing algorithms in ways that shrink the visibility of social justice content. Activists who once went viral for truth-telling now find their posts buried, flagged, or removed without explanation. The same platforms that amplified our calls for justice can now erase them—overnight.

In the last decade, digital activism has been the launchpad for some of the most significant social movements of our time. Black Lives Matter, #OscarsSoWhite, and #EndSARS all began online, translating hashtags into petitions, policy proposals, and bodies in the streets. Digital tools broke the monopoly on storytelling. We no longer had to wait for mainstream media to deem our pain “newsworthy.” We could show the world, in real time, the truth about police brutality, voter suppression, environmental racism, and corporate exploitation. That immediacy made digital platforms an extension of the public square. But unlike a city sidewalk, these spaces are owned and controlled by private companies—not the people.

In recent years, we’ve seen a coordinated rollback in digital protections. Major platforms have eliminated the very teams that monitored hate speech and harassment, creating fertile ground for extremist content while making it harder for marginalized users to feel safe. Algorithm changes have quietly deprioritized posts about racial justice or DEI, labeling them “political content” and shunting them to the sidelines regardless of engagement. Black creators and activists have increasingly reported higher rates of post removal and account suspension, especially when discussing race, police violence, or systemic inequity.

This isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s suppression at the infrastructure level. The fight for civil rights has always been about access: to education, to housing, to jobs, to the ballot box. In 2025, access also means visibility in the digital public square. When Black voices are muted online, the ripple effects hit every arena. Political organizing suffers when fewer voters are mobilized and fewer rallies are attended. Black-owned businesses lose revenue when their visibility is throttled. Cultural narratives are warped when our stories don’t surface, leaving space for misinformation and erasure.

If we want to keep the internet as a tool for liberation, we have to protect it the way past generations protected lunch counters, voting booths, and fair housing. That means demanding real transparency from platforms about how their algorithms work and who they silence. It means building and investing in Black-owned digital spaces where our communities set the rules and benefit from the revenue. It means preparing activists to document, navigate, and counter suppression in real time, and forging alliances between civil rights advocates and the technologists who understand the mechanics of online discrimination.

The civil rights era taught us that the fight for equality happens everywhere—on buses, at ballot boxes, in courtrooms. The 21st century has added a new frontline: the timelines, feeds, and hashtags where movements are born. If we let those spaces become hostile or inaccessible, we won’t just lose a tool—we’ll lose an entire generation’s ability to organize at scale. We cannot afford to be digitally dispossessed. The march must continue—on asphalt and on broadband.