End of the Year Issue
Ibtissem Remdane
When Luffy’s Jolly Roger was hoisted from Nepal’s Singha Durbar palace, it instantly became a symbol of something larger. Over the past few months, a wind of protests has swept across the globe. From Nepal to Madagascar, Kenya to Peru, Indonesia, the Philippines and Morocco: the youth, unwilling to inherit a broken system, have taken to the streets to prove that their future is daring and won’t be silenced.
Unlike previous waves of political mobilization, the Gen Z protests distinguish themselves through their decentralized organization, digital coordination, and symbolic creativity. Simultaneously emerging across several regions of the world, they reflect a generational response to deep structural crises like economic precarity, political disillusionment or the distrust in traditional institutions. What really makes them Gen Z though, is the fact that these movements are enabled and amplified through social media platforms such as TikTok or Instagram, where humor becomes a political language.
By September 2025, these protests became a transnational phenomenon. Although each local movement addresses specific national issues such as political corruption in Kenya or the restriction of free speech in the Philippines, they all share a common logic: the rejection of hierarchical authority and the demand for accountability in governance. Something else they have in common, is the means of transmitting symbolic messages.
Gen z’s the first generation to grow up fully online and has had a worldview shaped by an infinite access to information. Unlike previous generations, I believe our political awakening did not occur only through party affiliations or ideological schools but through our feeds. Many before now have witnessed global tragedies through media – from the TV broadcast of the Resistance War Against America in Vietnam to seeing 9/11 live in their living room. What differs for Gen Z is not exposure itself, but the proximity, the pace of it, and the line between those watching and those living the events becomes thinner. The result of this hyper-connected daily-life isn’t simply “more exposure to suffering,” but a system where this very suffering is always available to be seen, directly, at all times: close enough to tap into, and just as close enough to scroll past. For some this information overload fosters apathy, and to some extent, really does numb us to violence. But for some others it sparks indignation, because what this really means is injustice is never distant; it’s chronically always in our pockets.
Since these movements are leaderless, they are also difficult to suppress. There is no single figure to arrest, no headquarters to shut down. Their anonymity democratizes participation: anyone with a smartphone can join. Only it is not without consequences, as governments, along with the protesters, have adapted. Affiliation alone can become grounds for punishment, such as in the US where supporting the Palestinian cause publicly has led students to face disciplinary action, surveillance or even barriers like visa denials.
Still, this particular humor Gen Z has adopted online disarms power, and it transforms fear into creativity: because beneath the irony does lie a sharp moral core. Again, the memes are not just jokes; they are tools of political literacy. The use of images drawn from pop culture such as animes like One Piece, where a young pirate challenges the authority of the corrupt Marine Forces, or movies like The Hunger Games truly demonstrate Gen Z’s ability to merge digital culture with political activism. This led to the creation of a shared dissident language, and a sense of community despite the geographical distance. Within this wave, Morocco’s Gen Z #FreeKoulchi movement stands out as one of the most relentless. The word koulchi means “everything” in Arabic, which all of it then means “Free Everything.” Born after the tragedy at Hassan II Hospital in Agadir, where eight women died in childbirth after failed C-sections, what began as outrage over poor healthcare quickly evolved into a broader social movement.
By the end of September of this year, Moroccan cities saw the emergence of a decentralized protest network. In a statement published on its official accounts and Discord server, the movement calls on “all Moroccan youth, as well as all citizens,” to gather “in large numbers.” while emphasizing the nonviolent nature of the demonstrations: “The protests are peaceful and civilized. Order and responsibility must be maintained.” The movement had no formal leaders or party affiliations, yet its organization was remarkably efficient. Teenagers and university students used TikTok, Instagram, and Discord to coordinate marches, share safety tips, and amplify testimonies of hardship. The digital sphere became both a meeting place and megaphone.
The initial grievances were clear, such as collapsing public services or youth unemployment exceeding 25%. Later on, it gradually broadened to challenge the fact that national wealth was concentrated in the hands of a few. Many criticized the government’s investment in grand infrastructure projects for the Africa World Cup, AFCON, while hospitals and schools struggled to function. Phrases like “No World Cup, health comes first" and "We want hospitals not football stadiums" could be heard in the streets.
Later, as the movement progressed and protesters were being massively repressed, arrested and prosecuted by the Moroccan police, the phrase “Free Koulchi” appeared. It called for the release of the peaceful protesters who exercised their right by coming to the streets. It thus became not only a slogan but a diagnosis, everyone and everything needs to be freed because everything feels trapped.
Emotionally, the movement was fueled by hogra: a dialectal Arabic term used to describe humiliation and injustice. It’s the feeling of being ignored, of existing within a context that perpetuates oppression. For many young Moroccans, hogra had become a national condition.
As a response to the uprisings, the Moroccan government, accustomed to containing dissent through a mix of reform and restraint, initially downplayed the protests. But as #FreeKoulchi gained visibility and international attention, the official rhetoric shifted. On 10 October 2025, King Mohammed VI delivered a rare televised address urging his administration to act “with greater speed” on healthcare, education, and youth employment. Days later, Prime Minister Aziz Akhannouch’s government announced a package of social reforms: investment in hospitals, teacher recruitment programs, and targeted job creation schemes. Finance Minister Nadia Fettah Alaoui promised to redirect budget funds from luxury projects toward essential services.
Yet these promises were met with skepticism. Many activists viewed them as performative gestures from Akhannouch aimed at cooling tensions rather than systemic change. The AMDH (Moroccan Association for Human Rights) reports around 2,068 arrests, intimidation, and police violence continued to surface, prompting condemnation from organizations such as Amnesty International.
So while the government’s reformist language was conciliatory, its security practices remained repressive, a dual strategy that seems to have long characterized Moroccan governance. Still, the movement achieved something significant: it disrupted the narrative of Moroccan youth apathy. It revealed that beneath apparent stability lies a generation increasingly unwilling to accept a political order that limits them to symbolic participation.
#FreeKoulchi encapsulates many features of Gen Z activism worldwide: decentralization, digital organization, and moral clarity. It demands dignity, opportunity and concrete actions. What sets Morocco apart is how these universal frustrations intersect with local realities: a constitutional monarchy balancing modernization with control, a rapidly urbanizing youth population, and stark inequalities between coastal elites and rural communities. The AFCON preparations have also exacerbated these disparities, making many Moroccans feel the government’s priorities are misplaced. The protest thus reflects both a national crisis and a generational awakening.
For Moroccan youth, #FreeKoulchi is not only and solely about policy failure; it’s about belonging. Although the movement initially focused on social and economic rights rather than challenging the political system itself, it was later associated with broader democratic aspirations. It asserts their right to shape the country’s future rather than merely inherit it. In that sense, Morocco’s movement joins a larger global pattern: the rise of “connected dissent”, where young people mobilize simultaneously as citizens of their nations and participants in a transnational digital public sphere.
Yet, the power of digital protest contains its own contradictions. The same algorithms that connect youth also fragment their attention. Sustaining momentum beyond the viral moment remains a challenge, one that many Gen Z movements from #M66 in Togo to #MilkTeaAlliance in Asia, have confronted. Indeed in Morocco too, sustaining #FreeKoulchi beyond the online moment remains a challenge. Without formal organization or negotiation structures, translating demands into policy becomes difficult. But its legacy may not lie in immediate reform; it may lie in the cultural and psychological shift it triggered.
The #FreeKoulchi movement in Morocco is both a symptom and a signal. For thousands of young Moroccans, protest is no longer taboo. It is part of civic life. Today, our generation does not seek revolution in the old sense. It seeks renewal of trust, of accountability, even of hope. Its politics are not about overthrowing systems but about demanding that they finally work, that the citizens can be heard. In Morocco and beyond, these protests announce a truth that governments keep on ignoring– not without cost– the youth are not the future, we’re the present.