Sicily Schroeder/The Mossy Log
As a product of the central role of the internet in our lives, Generation Z covets anonymity in a capacity that undermines the value of our opinions and the power of our voices. I say that not as a cynic lobbing the usual “kids these days” critique, but as someone who edits a student newspaper in a moment when journalism is being reshaped — often distorted — by an overwhelming reluctance to attach one’s name to one’s own beliefs. And unlike previous eras of campus activism, the fear today is less about physical danger and more about the abstract terror of being perceived.
In a newsroom, that shift is a daily negotiation. More and more, our reportage is impacted — if not hindered — by sources who decline to go on the record despite circumstances that do not truly warrant anonymity. This pattern is most visible in our stories about student activism and protest culture, where the impulse to conceal one’s identity has become almost reflexive. Students attend public demonstrations, chant slogans, post Instagram stories and then email us insisting that a direct quote about why they showed up could endanger them legally. Never mind that their words do not implicate them in criminal activity. Never mind that they are domestic students. The mere possibility that their name might appear alongside a political statement is enough for them to retreat.
Even more troubling are the requests we have received to publish entire opinion articles anonymously on the grounds that the author fears backlash from the Lewis & Clark community. The worry that their political beliefs, especially if they diverge even slightly from the liberal-to-leftist spectrum that dominates campus discourse, could spark criticism. As if criticism were not a feature of democratic debate, but a personal attack. As if expressing an opinion should come with a guarantee of universal approval.
We have not granted anyone the power to publish an opinion piece anonymously, and I am hesitant to say that that will ever happen in the future. Facing backlash for political beliefs you express is not a crisis; it is a symptom of talking about politics at all. It is the unavoidable tax one pays for participating in public life. It is also the mark of a writer who is willing to think critically, stand by their ideas and join the sometimes uncomfortable project of intellectual exchange. Democracy, with all its contradictions and frictions, depends on that willingness.
I am not arguing that there is zero risk in speaking publicly about controversial issues, nor am I suggesting that every student must fearlessly attach their name to every political stance without hesitation. What I am saying is that if you truly stand for what you claim to, it should be worth it despite the risks. Courage without cost is not courage at all — it is branding.
Yet there is an important exception to this argument that I want to discuss: the real and escalating dangers facing international students and immigrants in the United States today.
It would be irresponsible to ignore the distinct political climate in which student journalists are now operating. Since the Trump administration reignited a hostile posture toward immigration, threats to international students’ safety have become concrete, documented and terrifyingly plausible. Around the country, college newspapers have been inundated with requests from international students to take down articles, retroactively anonymize quotes or remove identifying details from past coverage. These are not aesthetic concerns about searchability or theoretical anxieties about one’s digital footprint. These are survival concerns.
Student newspapers at institutions like Dartmouth College and the University of Virginia have had to systematically reconsider their approach to sourcing and opinion-writing because the stakes have changed. The arrest of Tufts University doctoral student Rümeysa Öztürk earlier this year is a chilling example. Öztürk was arrested by plainclothes ICE officers and detained for 45 days. On May 9, she was released after a judge declared that her arrest and detention appeared solely to be in retaliation to an op-ed she wrote in her campus newspaper criticizing her university’s response to the genocide of Palestinians. Öztürk’s detention was not incidental. It was punitive.
Such cases are not hypothetical — they are precedents. They signal to campus journalists that the cost of printing a name may, for some students, be profound. They force international students to stifle their critiques of global warfare and an American government that has abandoned them. They force editors in their teens or early 20s to make ethical decisions that used to belong to seasoned reporters with legal departments behind them.
International students are sources who should be granted anonymity. Their fear is not inflated or imagined — it is substantiated by state power. Protecting them is not just justified but essential.
That is precisely why I find it so outrageous that many domestic students refuse to go on the record about their views — not because of real danger, but because of the possibility of social discomfort. How can you claim solidarity with your international peers if you will not even attach your name to opinions expressed in a campus newspaper? What does support mean if it does not include the willingness to use our comparatively safer positions to advocate on behalf of those who lack that luxury?
Some students have gone on the record, and for that I am genuinely grateful. Their willingness to name themselves, even in the context of fraught political terrain, affirms that democratic participation does not require invulnerability, only commitment.
Still, the broader trend troubles me. The Gen Z gravitation toward anonymity goes beyond fear of having one’s name attached to a statement. It reveals something deeper — a reluctance to be seen at all, to appear in any context that might be construed as controversial. We do not want our words to exist in a searchable archive, even if they reflect genuine beliefs. We recoil from the premise of publicly committing to unpopular views out of fear of social reprisal. In trying to avoid being legible, we render ourselves politically inconsequential.
Protests are powerful not because they are faceless, but because they are full of faces — actual bodies, actual identities, actual people demonstrating that policy affects human lives. Anonymity might protect an individual ego, but it weakens a collective movement.
This impulse toward self-erasure is inseparable from the structure of the internet itself. Many of us grew up online in spaces where we could browse, argue and post without revealing who we were. Anonymity online allows us to explore opinions without consequence, which can be liberating and necessary. I support that right wholeheartedly. But it has also warped our expectations of what public discourse actually requires. A newsroom is not a subreddit. And if we treat it like it is, we sabotage its ability to function.
The Mossy Log, along with every other legitimate media outlet, operates according to norms of credibility, accuracy and accountability. Those norms depend on real names. If you want to express your opinion anonymously, you are welcome to post on Yik Yak, a platform designed precisely for that purpose. But journalism is not an anonymous forum. It is a public record. And the public is composed of people with identities, histories and stakes.
Ultimately, my point is that our voices matter more when we claim them. If we want to shape our campus, our politics and our world, we cannot do so from behind a veil. Anonymity may feel like safety, but it often functions as silence. And silence, in moments that demand courage, is its own kind of political choice.
Gen Z is capable of moral clarity and capable of bravery. We have seen it countless times. But if we want that bravery to mean anything, we must remember that democracy depends on visibility — not because being seen is easy, but because it is necessary.
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