March 19, 2025 06:13 EDT
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| Dear FO° Reader, On the evening of January 18, 2025, TikTok went dark in the US. For a total of 12 hours, those who depended on the app for life advice, news interpretation and mindless entertainment were met with a blank screen and a notification informing them that the federal government had banned the short-form video platform:
 The only thing that I did miss was the content I had created. My own videos weren’t much — no award-winning short films or pearls of philosophical analysis – but they were clips documenting my life before the ban. They were videos of my friends in college, reviews of books I had read and reels of my dog, who passed away late last year. I had captured little, obscure moments through my phone lens and shared them with thousands of people online. Although it has now been two months since I last had the app and, therefore, access to my creations, I still miss the collection of memories it held. While I have no desire to return to the app — especially with its relationship to Trump's rise — I wish I had taken the time to save those videos. It feels like I have lost those moments forever; they belong to an app owned by a corporation, indebted to a government I don’t support. This yearning has inspired a new fear in me. So much of what we have is no longer our own. Things that we would have once considered prized possessions are now all digital, kept in an omnipresent “library” — a word that used to indicate free knowledge but now alludes to an expensive membership that can be taken away at the whim of some billionaire. I realized I don’t even own a copy of my favorite book or movie. The textbooks that enabled me to study psychology, international studies and journalism ethics were all on some meta-physical cloud. Classic and revolutionary novels that have had an unmatched impact on our society and can shape how we move forward could be deleted from existence in seconds. While this realization rattled me, it also gave me a goal for the coming months. I have now become a collector of things. I’ve gone out and found well-loved copies of books like Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, novels that I read years ago but never had the chance to own and eventually pass on. I cleaned the cabinet underneath the television and reestablished my family’s DVD collection. I have started to frequent magazine, comic book and record stores again, skimming through their seasoned collections to find what to add to my own. I have even reverted to making photo albums and scrapbooks again instead of posting on social media. Sure, they take up more space than a digital membership, but I own them forever — which is more than most people can now say about their memories. Still, I am not alone. I am one of many who have decided to return to the security of physical mediums. This may look like a nostalgic hobby for people missing the days of Blockbuster Video or Borders bookstores, and in part, that is true. It is much more relaxing than any social media or streaming service could be. But it is also about preventing the loss of our stories. There is no guarantee that Disney+ or Netflix will keep all their current content or that Amazon won’t decide to censor its Kindle and Audible selections. After watching how easily a company like TikTok can fall into line, I have little trust in any of them. Having a tangible source of entertainment and knowledge is a guarantee in a world where things never feel secure. It’s one of the reasons I write. It is like leaving little corporeal parts of me behind for others to follow. At Fair Observer, I have the opportunity to share tangible stories that can’t be taken away digitally, due to the journal’s independent status and commitment never to utilize paywalls. Readers like me who thrive on the joy of turning a physical page may also be tempted to print our monthly magazine. My commitment to buying physical mediums and staying away from social media may seem like a minor, ineffectual act, but in a crisis, every small act of resistance is a step in the right direction. Nicolette Cavallaro Assistant Editor Intern |
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