In the age of the feed, power moves faster than institutions

Across continents, the most compelling voices in politics no longer rise from the floor of parliaments but from the glow of screens. In Colombo, chants of “Gota Go Home” began as hashtags before swelling into protests that toppled a presidency. In Dhaka, a student’s viral act of defiance became the emblem of a movement that forced a long-entrenched leader to step down. In Kathmandu, a clumsy ban on social media ignited an uprising of digitally native youth, who stormed parliament and demanded a new order. And in London, a far-right march drew unprecedented crowds, amplified by Elon Musk himself, addressing protesters via video link.

The common thread is not ideology but method. A new figure has emerged in democratic life: the grievance influencer. Part chronicler, part campaigner, these actors channel private frustrations into public momentum. They are untethered from party ranks or institutional checks, yet with a single clip or livestream they can summon more passion than manifestos and force quicker concessions than parliamentary debates. They are not an aberration. They are the shape of a politics in which attention itself has become power.

“Democracy trembles at the speed of a feed.”

In Sri Lanka in 2022, the “Aragalaya” movement united citizens against shortages, blackouts, and economic collapse. Its power did not come from a single leader or political party, but from a network of ordinary people amplified online. Viral posts mocked privilege, livestreams chronicled daily hardships, and solidarity spread at the speed of a feed. Within months, the Rajapaksa dynasty—long thought immovable—was driven from office.

Bangladesh offered its own dramatic variation in 2024. What began as a grievance over civil-service quotas escalated into a national reckoning when videos of police crackdowns went viral. Students, joined by teachers and civil society, carried placards and streamed their defiance, while the diaspora rallied online in solidarity. By August, mass mobilization had pushed a seemingly invincible government into retreat, its leader fleeing abroad after fifteen years in power.

Nepal’s turmoil came next. A government attempt to ban Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok lit a spark among digitally native citizens. For a generation raised online, this was more than policy—it was an affront to identity. Students defied the ban with VPNs and alternate channels, coordinating protests that left nearly twenty dead in two days. Faced with escalating outrage, the prime minister resigned and the ban was swiftly lifted.

Pakistan provides another variation. There, institutions have thinned, and opposition curtailed, but grievance found new narrators. Former Prime Minister Imran Khan reinvented himself as a populist influencer. His fiery online appeals reached millions, and when he was briefly arrested, protests erupted nationwide, including unprecedented attacks on military facilities. Grievance politics did not topple the government, but it destabilized the very establishment that claimed to rule in democracy’s name.

Even Britain has felt the tremors. The “Unite the Kingdom” march drew one of the largest far-right crowds in decades, organized not by mainstream leaders but by a provocateur. Its most striking moment was an address from Elon Musk, who warned of immigration’s dangers and called for political change. His words were condemned, but the event revealed that grievance influencers can challenge even mature democracies, bypassing traditional media and speaking directly to public fear.

“Outrage, if heard, can be democracy’s chance at renewal.”

Why do grievance influencers succeed where institutions falter? Their legitimacy lies in immediacy. A meme mocking excess, a livestream of hardship—these feel authentic in ways official speeches do not. They cut through delay, speaking to those who feel unseen. For many, grievance influencers give voice to what they feel but cannot articulate.

Yet the same qualities that empower them also make them volatile. Virality favors anger over nuance, urgency over patience. Movements without leaders excel at unseating but stumble at rebuilding. Outrage can topple a government but cannot draft a policy. The result can be a cycle of eruption, euphoria, drift, and disillusion.

The risks go further. Influencers are accountable to no one. Their stark narratives can deepen division, and their platforms can be manipulated by hostile actors. Anger, contagious and unmoored, can destabilize democracies faster than they know how to respond.

Still, outrage is not always destructive. It can also be a signal. When heard with humility and answered with transparency, it can push democracies to reform and reconnect. The energy that topples can also renew, if absorbed into institutions that people trust.

Power once moved slowly, through parties and parliaments. Today it can shift in hours, at the speed of a feed. Democracies that endure will be those that learn to listen to outrage without being consumed by it—those that can turn grievance into renewal rather than rupture.

Grievance influencers are here to stay. They are not a footnote in democratic life but its newest chapter. The question is whether democracies will evolve with them—or be overtaken by them.

(OP Singh is DGP and author of Why We Gather, an upcoming book on crowd engineering in the smart phone era.)