Why digital activism and constant information lead to compassion fatigue

How often are you checking your phone for war updates? At least 70% of my screen time is spent re-sharing, re-posting and checking notifications about it. I seem to be telling myself that by having Palestine and Iran constantly on my Insta stories, I am somehow keeping the issue alive in my world—hoping that family, friends and acquaintances will pause and think about it.

As the wars intensify, I have been thinking about the Iraq war and the time leading up to it. In 2002-03, I was at the University of Westminster in London studying radio journalism. 9/11 had happened, the Bhuj earthquake and the Godhra riots were recent, stark memories. That was the framework for my understanding of tragedy, loss and injustice. People had mobile phones but the device hadn’t taken over our every waking moment. To express solidarity, rage and sorrow, we still had to meet in the real world, plan and have our say, before letting the situation take its course.

News reports, investigations and opinion pieces sustained enquiries and discussions about weapons of mass destruction (WMDs) and the necessity of attack, and public outrage was palpable. As students, we participated in a massive anti-war protest rally; people carried placards saying “make love, not war” and a simple “say no to war”. At the end of that day, with hoarse throats and sore muscles we were hopeful that we had made noise enough to reach world leaders.

No doubt we went about our completely insulated, “normal” lives on campus in one of the most vibrant cities I have lived in. We were optimistic enough to believe that there would be no war if there was enough public outrage and not enough evidence of WMDs. Of course we were wrong. The war went on for four weeks and the occupation lasted several years after. Unconfirmed reports of casualties in Iraq range from 50,000 to 650,000.

If we’d talked about it for hours before, we followed it for months after. The devastation, the loss, the utter failure to find WMDs, the US elections, the troops withdrawal from Afghanistan, and the aftermath. But we didn’t see the devastation on our private screens every 5 minutes. And yet we felt deeply.

Today, I have much more information about the lives lost in Gaza, Iran, Lebanon and Sudan. I watch it like millions of others, but am I somewhat numbed to the violence and despair? Am I constantly sharing the news to keep the issue alive for others or to remind myself to feel outraged?

Anti-war protests are many—in London, Washington and other cities, people have come out in thousands. According to the latest CBS News/YouGov poll, about 57% of Americans believe the conflict is going somewhat badly for their country, and 66% view this as a war of choice and not a war of necessity. There is news coverage too, but you and I seem to be talking about it from the point of view of how it affects our country, lives and jobs. There’s grief and anger, but it’s brief; just until the next reel pops up.

Post the Iraq war, in 2004, India witnessed the landmark election of the United Progressive Alliance, and from 2004-08, the country got some people-friendly laws—such as the Right to Information Act, the Forest Rights Act and the Mahatma Gandhi Rural Employment Guarantee Act. Hope also came with Barack Obama’s campaign in the US and subsequent election, Germany’s Angela Merkel’s stable leadership and the Arab Spring. At the same time Syria grappled with IS, global recession took us all down, and India dealt with farmers’ suicides and 26/11. It has always seemed like too much is happening all at once, but it also seems like we responded with greater empathy and care about a decade ago.

The difference is social media—we didn’t have it then, or at least it didn’t play the central role it now does. Over the last decade, social media has become the main source of information and entertainment, the world has turned right, oligarchs’ chokehold has strengthened, and the climate crisis has spiralled. It’s near impossible to stay informed about everything, leave alone organise protests, write to lawmakers and channel public opinion. Should I fight for the mangroves of Mumbai, oppose the tunnel road in Bengaluru, show solidarity for Palestine and Iran, or take to the streets against the amendments to the transgender rights bill? I also have the privilege to be so sad and disturbed that I unfollow negative and depressing news. Is this the chilling beauty of the post-truth world?

I turned to my psychiatrist Syeda Ruksheda who explained the “secondary trauma” that comes from constant consumption of information of war, conflict, disasters. It’s barely being recognised or diagnosed, let alone treated. There has been no respite in the onslaught of conflicts and wars and deaths since the start of this year. No one is getting the time and space to process what is happening—be it the Epstein files, Gaza or Iran. “While we assuage ourselves by feeling that we have done the right thing by sharing and posting online, we are not recognising the impact of secondary trauma. It will either desensitise or make us hypersensitive; both will have repercussions on the society,” she says.

When my students tell me that my Insta stories are a source of information for them, I become even more invested in “this dissemination of information”. Sometimes on my long auto ride back home, I allow myself a sob but most of the time I don’t know what it is for. I feel—and I’m not exaggerating when I say many of us do too—helpless as we are pushed from one crisis to the next. Before I can react and try to do the “right thing”—a term that itself is malleable in its definition now—there’s something else to despair about. Of course, I am aware that this luxury of despair too is a huge privilege.

Maybe a decade or two from now, I’ll be able to make sense of this seeming lack of empathy and justice in the world. To acknowledge and recognise and feel in our bones that we are part of the larger world. Is that what I felt far more strongly 20 years ago but don’t any more? Or does the feeling still palpitate, but is drowned by the shrill buzz of notifications?

Prachi Pinglay-Plumber is an independent journalist and professor of practice at Central Campus, CHRIST University, Bengaluru.