Over the years, I have watched movements evolve in Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, the UK and elsewhere in Europe, and noticed how much they rely on images to tell their stories. In France, the Grapus collective spent the 1970s and 1980s making posters for trade unions and social causes. Images and symbols shape how we see the world. But they can also narrow our idea of what art is and who counts as an artist.

To me, we’re all artists, all making our way through life as best we can. When we face something unjust, or something that could be better, working out how to tackle it is a creative act. Our response can take the form of an article, a book, a drawing or a song. It can also be physical. Bricklayers, carpenters and farmers can be artists too, because of how they interact with their environment and turn ideas and imagination into something real.

That’s why art has been central to movements for human rights and social justice. Banners, posters, songs and speeches help movements communicate, reach people and drive change. Art and activism cannot be separated. Art invites us to ask what we want to say, what difference we want to make and whether that difference is positive. Those questions develop critical thinking and help us choose a direction.

Music and poetry help us imagine and describe things in ways that stick. Reports are useful, but they can end up unread in someone’s spam folder. A song that moves you or a few memorable lines can stay with you and inspire action.

Everyone appreciates art in some form, and everyone has been moved by it. Yet artivism has become a loaded term, and many people don’t want to call themselves artivists, because activism is often seen as extreme or radical. To me, activism is about helping people realise that what they do may already count as action, even when, amid a sea of pessimism and depressing news, it seems meaningless. That’s where art comes in. It can reignite people’s optimism and will. That optimism is justified. Around the world, we see positive change when people connect in solidarity. Art helps us do that because it’s a global language. We can touch each other’s hearts and find a way forward.

Threads of Solidarity is a global artivism project that draws on photojournalism and the experience of earlier movements. I bought a kufiyah woven in Al-Khalil, or Hebron, at Hirbawi, the last traditional kufiyah factory that still operates in Palestine, which has kept its looms running since 1961. I have since carried it through over a dozen cities. I photograph it in places where a kufiyah in the foreground sends a message, and document its journey as a photo essay.

I gifted a second kufiyah to someone in Goma. It is meant to create literal threads of solidarity between struggles. The project shows how a scarf made under occupation can become a template for storytelling and solidarity. It also encourages people to think about global supply chains. We all wear clothes, but their origins and the conditions they are made in are often hidden from us. Understanding where our money goes, who controls supply chains and what’s at stake helps us make more informed choices about what we buy and wear. Storytelling can make these questions accessible and create space for dialogue.

Many people have built large audiences on major social media platforms, sharing photos and videos of physical work or creating art digitally. To keep reaching the widest possible audience, they can feel compelled to stay on those platforms.

That’s a problem. If their work touches on issues authoritarian regimes, criminals or abusers want to suppress, they may be able to identify and locate creators and trace their followers and contacts. Many digital artists don’t realise how big a footprint they leave or how it could put others at risk.

We have seen people imprisoned simply for following particular accounts, liking posts or sharing work they consider art. Salma al-Shebab, then a PhD student at the University of Leeds, UK, and mother of two, was arrested in Saudi Arabia in 2021 and sentenced to 34 years in prison for following and retweeting dissidents and women’s rights activists on Twitter. She was not released until early 2025. Through my work with Tech for Palestine, I see how Palestinians and those who support a free Palestine have lost their reach, their accounts and their access to banking. Human Rights Watch documented over 1,000 cases of Facebook and Instagram removing or suppressing peaceful content in support of Palestine in just two months in 2023.

Some choose to stay offline and work in analogue forms, and there are good reasons for that. But digital spaces offer access to a global audience. They can open people’s eyes and hearts, improve others’ circumstances and reach those we could never meet in person. So there’s a trade-off there.

Platforms also turn art into endlessly consumed content. A human rights image can appear between cat pictures. People react briefly and keep scrolling. That’s because the people who design and build these platforms know how our psychology works. So artists, creators and designers need to ask how to make art that resists being consumed this way. Artivism shared online can easily get caught up in the same logic, so we must stay alert and be clear about our vision and goals. We also need digital spaces that maximise protection alongside positive impact, and we must explain why safer alternatives are better, or people may make harmful compromises without realising it.

Through Manifest Studio, I have been building Manifest, an offline, privacy-friendly infrastructure that brings creative tools together with documentation and archiving features. Manifest works offline because connectivity cannot be taken for granted. Access Now recorded at least 313 internet shutdowns in 52 countries in 2025, the highest number it has documented. The goal is to bring advocates, artivists, campaigners, creatives and designers into one hub and build safer habits for online activity. Manifest also encourages artivists, creators and designers to use tools that respect their privacy and support anonymity when needed. Manifest is designed to work without an account and keep people’s work on their own device, so there is no central database of users for anyone to seize.

Manifest also gathers open-source tools that are often scattered across different places. This shows people they don’t need expensive subscriptions to create effective work or use their creativity for a social purpose. The platform presents this information alongside current research. For example, it can display CIVICUS Monitor civic space ratings on a global map, so users can understand conditions where they live, assess the risks of campaigning through problematic platforms and identify safer alternatives. That matters because, according to the CIVICUS Monitor, only seven per cent of the world’s people live in countries where civic space is open or relatively open. The same map draws on Access Now’s shutdown records and the Human Rights Measurement Initiative’s rights tracker. People can also connect with value-aligned communities online and find physical hubs where they can meet offline.

Archiving shouldn’t be left to institutions or technical specialists. Many of us have piled up photos and videos in cloud storage that we could lose if we stop paying. Our material may also be used to train AI systems that don’t serve our goals. Amnesty International’s 2026 report, Unlawful by Design, found that generative AI systems are often trained on data taken from artists and social media users without their knowledge or consent. Manifest aims to make it easier to store material in ways that can be anonymous or immutable when appropriate. Who decides what goes into a shared archive matters as much as the technology. That is why I co-led Human Rights DAO, a pilot with Amnesty International Aotearoa New Zealand that tested how the people who contribute to human rights infrastructure could govern it together.

I have also built Archive of Resistance, a repository of over 200 digital tools alongside the movements and thinkers behind them. It can be downloaded and used offline. It works as a library and a risk-assessment tool. Users complete a questionnaire and receive recommendations for relevant resources, tools and thinkers.

Movements have used many methods and tools over time. Some have succeeded, some have failed and others continue. Rather than reinventing the wheel, people should be able to enter a safe space, learn what has worked elsewhere, adapt it to their context and connect with others. Sharing struggles in this way can provide inspiration to continue. Manifest Studio is still growing, and I’d like to hear from groups who want to test Manifest with their communities, and from funders and partners who want to help shape what comes next.