What can three widely circulated images of female activists from different countries and moments reveal about the role of photography as discursive visual markers in the post-digital age? Building upon the practices of social semiotics (Van Leeuwen, 2005), I explore three case studies that represent contemporary historical moments and the clash between popular movements and state forces. The three images depict 1) Ceyda Sungur, photographed by Osman Orsal at the Gezi Park protest in Istanbul, Turkey, in 2013; 2) Ieshia Evans, photographed by Jonathan Bachman at the Black Lives Matter protest in Baton Rouge, US, in 2016; and 3) Alaa Salah photographed by Lana Haroun outside the military headquarters in Khartoum, Sudan in 2019. I offer a close reading of these three key images and situate the analysis within contemporary discourse on photography as a form of public pedagogy. The selected images share key similarities as well as significant differences. Each image features a female protagonist participating in a social justice demonstration, and all three went “viral,” meaning they circulated widely across social media platforms (Drainville, 2018; Friedman, 2019; Harding, 2013). The images, however, differ in notable ways: they were taken in different years—2013, 2016, and 2019—and two were shot by male photographers, while one was captured by a female photographer. This analysis will pay particular attention to the role of narrative and framing, both of which significantly contribute to the reception of the photographs.

Ceyda Sungur photographed by Osman Orsal in Istanbul, 2013

(See image published in BBC: https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-22798827)

In 2013, following the Occupy Movement in the U.S. and the waves of unrest sparked by the Arab Spring, a peaceful environmental sit-in at Gezi Park in Istanbul evolved into a broader social movement across Turkey. The protest initially aimed to prevent the demolition of Gezi Park, which included the removal of more than 600 sycamore trees, one of the last remaining green spaces in downtown Istanbul (Verstraete, 2022). The project, personally endorsed by then-Prime Minister and now President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, planned to replace the park with a shopping mall and residential complex designed to mimic the Ottoman-style military barracks that once stood on the site (McLeod, 2016). Unsurprisingly, this proposal met with resistance, as it was perceived as “another example of [Erdoğan’s] growing arrogance and the widening disconnect between the government and the people” (McLeod, 2016, p. 3). The protests posed a significant challenge to Erdoğan’s leadership.

At the time, Erdoğan had been advancing conservative legislation, which further deepened public dissatisfaction. His comments about the role of women, including suggestions that families should have three children and the renaming of the Ministry for Women and Family to the Ministry of Family and Social Policies, signalled his patriarchal views. Additionally, in 2012, Erdoğan’s government became the first in the world to outlaw elective cesarean sections while also restricting access to abortions (McLeod, 2016). It was within this socio-political context of mounting public unrest and gendered political control that the iconic image of the ‘Woman in Red’ emerged.

Riot police used excessive force in their attempts to dismantle the Gezi Resistance, iconized by the photograph examined here, leading to nationwide protests across the country. Writing on the subject, Pieter Verstraete explained, “It is also important to realize that the woman in red phenomenon is part of a wider repertoire of performative forms of protest that has changed Turkey’s protest culture and cultural scene irrefutably” (2022, p. 139). Captured by Reuters photographer Osman Orsal, the image went viral on social media, spawning numerous remixed versions in both digital and offline formats. Notably, it was transformed into a billboard created by students at a Turkish university, allowing participants to insert their faces into the space where Sungur’s face appears, thereby ostensibly becoming the ‘Woman in Red’ and generating an additional layer of photographs. Gulizar Haciyakupoglu and Weiyu Zhang write that the image “…produced a kinaesthetic imagination (Roach 1996) as protestors not only re-posted the images digitally on social media with accompanying narratives but also started to ‘embody’ them by wearing red garments at the protests as a marker of new political identities” (2015, p. 140). The authors also noted that, on the topic of truth or authenticity, the protesters interviewed tended to trust video footage over static images due to the circulation of fake news and photoshopped imagery. They explained, “Videos were trusted more than written information and pictures because videos contain identifiable information, such as time and location, and are more difficult to edit” (Haciyakupoglu & Zhang, 2015, p. 461). And yet this image, in particular, had staying power.

It is important here to note that the photographer of the image was working for Reuters and that this image is one of four released by the agency. The four images provide a narrative: 1) Sungur is looking at the riot police, 2) the officer who had stepped forward begins to spray her, and we see her hair flying straight up in response to the pressurized release of pepper spray, 3) she turns her head away her hair shifting to the right with her body movements, and 4) a final image of the officer continuing to lunge at her, the spray inches from her back as she retreats. In some cases, news publications choose to feature only one frame. The Guardian, for example, selected a close-up crop featuring the policeman on the left of the frame and Sungar on the right, turning away from the very visible spray of the gun (Harding, 2013). Others ran all four images in one article (BBC, 2013; Kelley, 2013; Williams, 2013). Still, others included the illustrated version of the photograph, which shows Sungur with her hair raised and a much smaller riot policeman spraying her, reporting that this replica had been adopted as a profile picture by many Twitter users showing support for the protesters (Hartogs, 2013). Perhaps the authorship of an official photojournalist and the multiple frames, not unlike what a video format would have offered, lent themselves to the trustworthiness and momentum behind the images.

If we focus in particular on the image of Sungur which captures the moment she was being sprayed and was  replicated, remixed, and tagged by Reuters as the “image of the day,” the visual signifiers offer insight. The image is in landscape format; a line of riot police begins to curl around the image from the top right above Sungur to the middle, ending with the officer who adults Sungar with pepper spray. On the top left, a woman with long red hair covers her mouth and nose, her brow furred in what we might assume is distress caused by the deployment of pepper spray, which aggressively shoots across the middle of the frame. Below her, filling the entire left quadrant of the frame, another woman looks downward and appears in distress. Her hands are raised but not yet in a protective stance; her fingers echo the lines leading right toward the woman in red. Following these leading lines, one’s eyes rest on Sungur, her red knee-length dress twisting in motion and her medium-length dark curls flowing directly upwards in response to the spray from the gun held by the police officer. Her eyes are closed, her face tilts down, and she holds one hand close to her chest, wrapped around the handles of a white cloth bag hanging from her shoulder. The other arm, furthest from the police officer, is somewhat bent, foreshadowing her recoil, which we can follow in the next frame. The police are encompassed by what appears to be unarmed female figures reacting to aggressive force. They are all turning away from the abuse. The center-right portion of the frame is sliced by this aggression, a clear white line denoting the pepper spray, which leads us directly to Sungur’s face. Below the line of pepper spray, we see a patch of grass… land, the purpose of the protest. 

Although the other figures may take up more of the foreground, Sungar’s red dress stands out against the green backdrop and against the line of police in black uniforms and white helmets. In Maria McLeod’s (2016) rich semiotic analysis of the image, she points out that the red dress and the white bag curved at her side replicate the red Turkish flag with the white crescent moon and star. While the red of Sungar’s dress functions as a gender signifier and references the colour’s association with life-giving blood, seduction, and female sexuality, the cut of the dress and the modest accessories temper this interpretation to one that is aligned with professionalism. Sungar had indeed joined the protest after exiting her place of employment, the Istanbul Technical University’s Urban & Regional Planning Department, where she worked as a research assistant. McLeod explained, “In the context of Erdoğan’s regime in particular, the dynamic between the policemen and female protesters was perceived by many of the Turkish protesters as an attack upon Turkey’s secular women” (2016, p. 5).  The visual appearance of the woman, the reaction that is captured in this moment where she is visually accosted by the spray but has yet to stand down, speaks to the identity-building function of the image. An unarmed woman peacefully protesting to protect an area of land valued by the Turkish community experiences violence at the hands of a heavy police presence. Perhaps the momentum of the image is, at least in part, captured by the function of the image as an apt metaphor for the experience of the wider Turkish community under Erdoğan’s rule. As McLeod put it, “She becomes a cultural signifier—the one who stands for many, a social media metonym” (McLeod, 2016, p. 12). The growing social imaginary, which portrayed Erdoğan as an increasingly authoritarian ruler, making decisions that did not benefit and indeed could be harmful to the Turkish people, was iconized in the photograph of the woman in red.

Ieshia Evans photographed by Jonathan Bachman in Baton Rouge, 2016

(See image published in Time: https://time.com/4402852/baton-rouge-protester-ieshia-evans/)

The Black Lives Matter movement, or #BLM, was born in response to the ongoing history of racial violence and inequity in the United States. In 2013, Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi initiated #BlackLivesMatter after the acquittal of George Zimmerman, the man who fatally shot Trayvon Martin, a Black 17-year-old living in Florida (Black Lives Matter, 2024). The following year, Darren Wilson, a police officer in Ferguson, shot and killed Mike Brown, a Black 18-year-old. In the days that followed, community members in Ferguson gathered in the hundreds to demonstrate. Garza, Cullors and Tometi supported the protest and took notes, broadening the movement to embrace demonstrations in 18 different cities. Today they explain, “Our members organize and build local power to intervene in violence inflicted on Black communities by the state and vigilantes” (Black Lives Matter, 2024 para. 4).  Eric Garner, Akai Gurley, Tamir Rice, Jerame Reid, Freddie Gray, William Chapman, The Charleston Nine, Jonathan Sanders, Corey Jones, Jamar Clark and many other Black individuals were killed in 2014 and 2015, contributing to feelings of outrage and fuelling community support for the movement. On July 5th, 2016, Alton Sterling was shot in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He was a 37-year-old Black man with five children and was shot by Officer Blane Salamoni (Levenson, 2019). The following day, on July 6th, Philando Castile, a 32-year-old Black man, was shot by Police at a traffic stop. He was in the car with his partner and 4-year-old child (Stanford University, 2020). The police officer, Jeronimo Yanez, took 40 seconds from uttering “Hello sir” to fire at Castile seven times at close range, killing him in front of his family (Croft, 2017). Neither Salamoni nor Yanez were charged in relation to the shootings.

On July 9th, 2016, a group of people gathered to demonstrate in front of the Baton Rouge Police Department in response to the killing of Sterling. Ieisha Evans, a 27-year-old nurse from Pennsylvania, travelled to Baton Rouge to join the protest. She wrote in a Guardian article on July 22, 2016, “Too many people are being slaughtered by those who are employed to serve and protect us. It is becoming the norm. Our government is not doing anything for us. So we’re going to have to do something for ourselves” (2016, para. 10). In a book which explores the gendered aspects of the movement, Darnell L. Moore and Hashim Khalil Pipkin wrote, “It is easy to willfully forget the particular experiences of black girls and women when much of our narratives of black progress are organized around the needs of and presumed social ills that impact black men” (Morre & Pipkin, 2016, p. 29). Reuters photographer Jonathan Bachman covered the protest as a first in his career. In an interview with Bachman, she explained, “They were looking at me, at us, us journalists and saying where have you been? This has been happening for decades” (World Press Photo, 2017, min. 0:45), and he continued, “I felt guilty not knowing” (World Press Photo, 2017, min. 1:26). The picture of Evans documents her arrest. She was one of 102 protesters in Baton Rouge that day. She walked into the street, stopped in front of the officers and was arrested for obstructing the highway, Sidahmed reported, “She was making her stand. She said nothing and was not moving” (2016, para. 6). She was eventually strip-searched and spent the night in jail. At the end of the article she wrote for The Guardian, she describes having a conversation with her then-five-year-old son, “Justin hasn’t seen the picture of me in Baton Rouge. Explaining what happened was difficult. I told him that Mommy got arrested and he said: “Why? I thought only bad people get arrested? ”I was stumped for a little bit. And then I just said: “You know what? That’s not always the case.” (Evans, 2016, para. 23). And as explored above, history repeats itself.

The composition of the image tells a story not unlike that of the Woman in Red. Evans stands, feet firmly planted on the pavement, face stoically calm, and two officers in full riot gear approach her. The contrast between the attire of Evans and the officers is so dramatic it’s almost comical; she wears a summer dress so light it flutters in the breeze while the two men that are arresting her are adorned head to toe in protective gear including face vizors on their helmets, shoulder pads, arm guards, hip and knee protection, toe coverings and big black backpacks. They are frozen in what appears to be a dance, it is clear they have rushed towards her, approaching from a sea of officers dressed identically to them, standing in a line that disappears behind them as if never-ending. And yet, the particular stance they are caught in by Bachman’s camera has them almost falling back, as if Evans’s certain, unwavering and erect stance repels them. An earlier frame from the series tells us that her arms were crossed, but we see her begin to unravel them as one officer reaches toward her. She continues to hold her phone close to her torso, her extended hand holding her keys and a loose wristwatch. The loop of the watch is echoed by the loops of the zip-ties swaying towards her from the officer’s belt. A close examination reveals both officers carry guns. Evans does not even have pockets.

Surrounding this interaction, one notices the environment, which contributes to the visual narrative. Cracks in the pavement emphasize the conflicting movements; a large crack travels down from Evans’s wrist, separating her body from that of the officers, ending in a horizontal split which cuts the entire image between top and bottom. Another crack begins between the legs of the arresting officer as if to suggest the ground itself might join in the protest, swallowing the officers whole and leaving Evans on an island of steadfast pavement. These cracks emphasize the heaviness of the officers weighing down the left of the screen. One can not help but wonder, do they not realize excessive force is what the protest is about? The right side of the frame is not only occupied by Evans; it is visually populated by photographers and civilians peppering the background, observing the altercation as it unfolds. A neverending stream of witnesses, looking, seeing, documenting.  A huge tree fills the upper right corner of the frame, behind Evans and the onlookers, surrounded by bright green grass. The grass does not continue behind the officers; they obscure it.

It is difficult to identify the officers; their visors and riot gear cover almost every inch of their skin. Evans is exposed; we can see her shoulders, her arms, her back, and her legs. Her skin is a protagonist in the photograph. Like Sungur, her dress appears feminine but not provocative, light and practical for a hot summer day in Louisiana. She wears glasses and flat black shoes with brained straps that emphasize her steadfast posture as if she has strapped herself to the pavement. Her stoic expression and steadfast posture despite the riot-gear-clad officers rushing towards her drew comparisons to the ‘tank man’ in Tiananmen Square (Miller, 2016). An article in the New York Times described her as a heroic figure for the Black Lives Matter movement (Cole, 2016).

Alaa Salah photographed by Lana Haroun in Khartoum, 2019

(See image published in Middle East Eye: https://www.middleeasteye.net/news/scared-worried-and-hopeful-sudanese-photographers-view-uprising)

The third and final case study to be examined here focuses on Alaa Salah, an architecture student and women’s rights advocate standing portrayed standing on a car as she recited poetry written by Azhari Mohamed Ali, a Sudanese poet (Hajduga, 2023). The specific events in Sudan that contributed to the circumstances within which Alaa Salah was portrayed began in December 2018, but acts of resistance in Sudan have been ongoing before that moment and have continued after 2019. In 1964, the October Revolution removed the first president of Sudan from power. Ismail al-Azhari served as Sudan’s first Prime Minister from 1954 to 1956, achieving independence for Sudan in 1956 but losing power shortly afterwards (Britannica, 2024; Hajduga, 2023). A military government took power in 1958, and al-Azhari re-emerged in 1964, appointed Head of State in 1965 only to be overthrown by a military coup on 1969, led by Omar al-Bashir. Al-Bashir served as the President from 1989 to 2019. 

In March of 2000, al-Bashir began what was meant to be a temporary state of emergency, which he extended indefinitely (Ingham, 2024). In 2003, al-Bashir recruited a militia to terrorize civilians in Darfur in response to an uprising and prevented humanitarian aid from reaching those in need, taking notice and criticism from the international community. In 2008 the International Criminal Court (ICC) cited al-Bashir as guilty of crimes against humanity in Darfur, including war crimes and genocide. An arrest warrant was issued, the first of its kind for a sitting head of state. The Sudanese government denied the charges. A second arrest warrant was issued by the ICC in 2010, charging al-Bashir with genocide, but no action by the United Nations Security Council led to a suspension of the investigation. In 2011, Sudanese citizens voted in a referendum, which resulted in South Sudan seceding, contributing to growing concerns regarding economic stability that was already weakened by US sanctions and government corruption (Hajduga, 2023). Living conditions continued to worsen as the years progressed, and austerity measures led to significant unrest, contributing to the uprising towards the end of 2018.

The demonstrations, which began in December of 2018, were fueled by the precarious living conditions leading up to this moment and began in smaller cities where austerity measures were introduced before arriving in Khartoum. By December 2019, Sudanese demonstrators were calling for al-Bashir to step down, and the movement was largely led by women. Young women who had experienced systematic violations under the leadership of al-Bashir marched on the front lines despite the history of violence they experienced at the hands of authorities (Hajduga, 2023). Writing about the protests, Roksana Hajduga explained, ”Women were in the front of the protests from the first day of the revolution; they became symbols of strength and muses for the artists” (2019, p. 172), continuing to point out that 60-70% of the protesters were women contributing to the movement being dubbed the ‘Women’s Revolution.’

On April 8th, photographer and musician Lana Haroun headed to the sit-in outside the military headquarters occupied by thousands of protesters, despite recent shootings, tear gas deployment and the confiscation of recording devices by security forces. A notable shift took place on April 6th when it appeared that soldiers had begun to side with the protesters, defying orders (Ahmed, 2019). In a published interview, Haroun explained that it was under these circumstances that she was able to take the photograph of Alaa Salah at a time when few images emerged from the protests.  Haroun continued, 

We realised after a very short time that there is no media from the world, from the Arab [world], or even from Sudan standing with our protest….Because of my photo, I saw a lot of attention – but it is about my photo, not about the protest…. This makes me feel very sad…. We went to the street because … we need the world to focus on our [issues] (quoted by Ahmed, 2019).

On April 11th, just days after the image of Alaa Salah was recorded, al-Bashir was ousted by a military coup and arrested (Ahmed, 2019).

The photograph Haroun shot that day portrays Alaa Salah, a 22-year-old architecture student standing on the roof of a car with her hand in the air, leading a chant with the crowd which repeated the words of a Sudanese poet Azhari Mohamed Ali, exclaiming, “They imprisoned us in the name of religion, burned us in the name of religion … killed us in the name of religion” (Hajduga, 2023). She wore a white tobe, typically associated with teachers, midwives and nurses, and Hajduga explained,  “The thoughtful selection of Alaa Salah’s clothing makes reference to the tradition of Sudanese female activists from the 1940s and 1950s, and the dress emphasizes the legacy of women’s fight for social justice” (2019, p. 173). Western media referred to the image as the symbol or icon of the revolution (Friedman, 2019; Malik, 2019; Young, 2021). In the photograph, Salah is surrounded by a sea of protesters, many of whom are women and many who raise their mobile phones, creating a sea of lights beneath her. Her right arm is raised with one index finger pointing to the sky, her mouth open as words continue to pour from her. Her left hand rests with fingers outstretched upon her lower torso as if to summon an exhale with the support of her diaphragm. The draping of the white tobe around Salah creates a statuesque silhouette, an embodiment of a strength summoned from Nubian warrior queens, or Kandakes, who are said to have fought foreign powers in 29 BCE on the historical region of Kush, modern-day Sudan (Griffin, 2021). Drawing upon a long history of powerful female figures, Alaa Salah, as a visual icon portrayed by Lana Haroun, represented the resistance movement of the Sudanese people.

Three Women, Three Countries, Three Movements: Comparative Analysis

There are distinct differences between the image of Sungar and Evans in comparison with the image of Salah. The first notable shift is the frame dimensions, from horizontal to square, which also indicates the shift from photojournalist compositions–often horizontal unless capturing a formal portrait–to the square image published by Haroun. The square is a distinctive format for the smartphone era and one that the visual platform Instagram used to impose, reminiscent of the popular instant Polaroid formats of the 1970s and 1980s and the large format cameras long before that. By 2019, footage of uprisings in mobile format had become more commonly published, and cellphone photography had improved significantly. The Arab Spring of the 2010s ushered in the normality of citizen journalism, particularly in the context of authoritarian regimes where DSLRs and other professional imaging devices had been confiscated by authorities. According to the title of Chase Jarvis’ 2009 book on iPhone photography, The Best Camera is the One That’s With You. By 2019, smartphone photography had become not only commonplace for posting snapshots of family, friends, and holidays, which sociologist Nathan Jurgenson referred to as the Social Photo (2019), but it had also become a common format for capturing protest imagery.

Another important distinction between the photographs shot by Bachman and Orsal when compared with the image shot by Haroun is that Salah was a woman photographed by a woman. The visual narrative represented in the photo was about Salah, about the women who came before her, which she references in her choice of attire, and about the women she is surrounded by who dominated the movement and who include the photographer Lana Haroun herself. The male authoritarian aggressor that we see present in the photograph of Evans and  Sungur is no longer in sight in the image of Salah. Salah stands above a sea of women who hold up their phones as she raises her voice and leads the crowd in chanting. Salah is a women who’s story is told by another women, not a parachute photographer who swoops in from abroad, but a Sudanese female photographer who saw the moment and captured it. This is a visual story of a movement led by women, and it is not the first of its kind, but one example in a longer history in which female leadership has triumphed under extreme pressure.

There is more to consider when comparing the power of narrative portrayed in the three images. Leigh Raiford (2011), building on earlier work by Susan Sontag (2003), highlights the ethical challenges of representing the pain of others:

…[T]he intense circulation of photographs as postcards, trade cards, posters, buttons, and in newspapers suggests that the image was always in danger of reproducing the violence or spectacularizing the figures it documents without occasioning an opportunity for action, engendering both shock and silence. And in its manifestation as photograph, a medium so closely aligned to the circulation and distribution of commodities, the reproduction of black images always has the potential to reify the black body (in pain or in triumph) as commodity (Raiford, 2011, pp. 8-9). 

Two key points arise from this. First, the repeated portrayal of racialized peoples in states of pain or violent rebellion risks reinforcing narratives of perpetual victimhood or aggression, potentially undermining the broader movement for change. Second, the commodification of these images, where the suffering body becomes part of a “trading card” economy, is deeply troubling. While individuals may share images of suffering on social media to raise awareness, they simultaneously feed into a commodification cycle driven by social media moguls who profit from pain by selling advertising space and attracting larger audiences drawn to spectacle.

In this context, it becomes crucial to assess the power of nonviolent imagery, such as Haroun’s photograph, compared to Orsal’s and Bachman’s photographs. A lingering, perhaps unanswerable, question remains: is it more effective to mobilize the public through the provocative content of violence in response to peaceful protest, even at the risk of fetishization, or to inspire change through images that cultivate hope? The New York Times called the image in Baton Rouge one of “The Superhero Photographs of the Black Lives Matter Movement” continuing to explain that, 

Black Lives Matter as a movement originated in images: the video clips showing the extrajudicial killing of black people. The “superhero” photographs of protesters, with their classic form and triumphal tone, are engaged in a labor of redress. They bring a counterweight to the archive. Against death and helplessness, they project power and agency”. (Cole, 2016, para. 8). 

Elevating Evans and similar figures to mythical status presents a problematic tension, as these icons are not fictional heroes but real individuals embedded in turbulent realities. The violence surrounding these protests is not a fictionalized narrative that can be left behind at the end of a film; rather, it reflects the persistent racial violence in the United States, demanding sustained and serious attention.

In sum, while the semiotic analysis of each image provides insight into the visual elements that contributed to their individual impact, a comparative analysis offers a deeper understanding of the evolving role of protest photography in contemporary social movements. The shift from traditional, photojournalistic formats to smartphone-optimized imagery, as seen in Haroun’s image of Alaa Salah, reflects broader changes in technology and the democratization of visual storytelling, particularly in contexts where professional cameras are restricted. Moreover, the fact that Haroun’s photograph was both of and by women highlights the significance of female agency in shaping protest narratives. This contrasts with the more confrontational images of Sungur and Evans, which feature male aggressors and were shot by male photographers, underscoring how the identity-building power of protest photography is influenced by both the subject and the author of the image. As Raiford (2011) and Sontag (2003) caution, however, such imagery risks commodifying the suffering of marginalized bodies while reinforcing problematic narratives of victimhood. The tension between violent and nonviolent protest imagery raises important questions about how these photographs function within movements: whether through the shock of violence or the hope of peaceful resistance, protest images do more than document—they actively shape public perception and the identity of movements in ways that influence the ongoing struggle for justice.

The Role of Social Media in Dissemination and Impact

Affect plays a significant role in the algorithmic prioritization of social media content, with posts that elicit strong emotional responses tending to attract higher levels of interaction and, consequently, greater exposure (Davis & Graham, 2021). In the case of Ceyda Sungur in Gezi Park, Istanbul, the image of a police officer deploying pepper spray at close range evokes a strong emotional response, corresponding to what Barthes (1981) refers to as the “punctum”—the affective element of the image that strikes the viewer. Situating this image within the broader socio-political context of authoritarian governance and the curtailment of women’s rights in Turkey amplifies its emotional impact. Many women in Turkey could likely relate to the narrative this photograph conveys: a woman who, despite not instigating violence, is subjected to unnecessary abuse at the hands of an authoritarian figure.

Similarly, the photograph of Ieshia Evans in Baton Rouge follows a parallel yet distinct narrative. While the zip ties wielded by the American police may seem less overtly aggressive than the pepper spray in the Sungur image, the firearms worn by the riot police highlight the ongoing issue of racial violence, the very reason for Evans’s presence at the protest. Like Sungur, Evans stands unarmed in a summer dress, embodying peaceful resistance, while heavily armed police in riot gear move to restrain her. Civilians watch, and the cracked asphalt beneath Evans and the officers symbolizes the tension between these opposing forces. This contrast between Evans’s calm demeanor, represented by her flowing dress, and the intimidating presence of the riot police, can also be understood as the punctum of the image—a visual trigger that intensifies its emotional impact.

In contrast, the punctum in Haroun’s photograph of Alaa Salah is not rooted in aggression but in the image of a woman rising and leading a crowd with strength and determination. Instead of inciting anger or disdain, the image inspires hope and empowerment, illustrating a form of feminine leadership grounded in historical and cultural resistance. The emotional response elicited by this image is one of admiration and collective solidarity, as Salah embodies the strength of her ancestors in her demand for social change. In all three images, the female protagonists symbolize resistance, and each visual narrative invites the viewer to confront a challenge: if she can resist under such conditions, so can others. These images resonate strongly with local viewers, particularly within the sociopolitical contexts from which they emerged, and the emotional responses they provoke contribute to their broader impact.

All three images were described as “going viral” on social media (Drainville, 2018; Friedman, 2019; Harding, 2013). The New York Times noted of the Baton Rouge photograph that “in spite of, or because of, its simple narrative, Bachman’s photograph became an icon” (Cole, 2016, para. 1-3). Both Evans and Salah were compared to the Statue of Liberty (Miller, 2016; Hajduga, 2023), with a remixed version of Salah going so far as to depict her as the statue, with former president al-Bashir running away in fear (Hajduga, 2023). Sungur’s image also spawned numerous remixed versions, appearing both in physical spaces, such as billboards, and circulating widely on digital platforms. These iconic photographs, each featuring a female protagonist and triggering a strong emotional response, first resonated locally among demonstrators and then spread internationally via social media, garnering further support for their respective causes.

Conclusion

The three case studies presented examine images from distinct socio-cultural contexts, each portraying a powerful moment of resistance through women as central figures. These images share common features: they depict women in protest, convey visual narratives that align with broader socio-political movements, and have achieved widespread circulation online. A semiotic analysis of each reveals how specific visual elements contribute to the effectiveness of the images as compelling narratives that resonated deeply with activists and the public, particularly within the context of their respective movements.

One striking difference lies in the photographers themselves: while two of the images were taken by male photojournalists working for Reuters, the third was captured by a female photographer working independently. This distinction in the gender of the photographers parallels a shift in the framing and content of the images. The images captured by male photographers, Osman Orsal and Jonathan Bachman, focus on the confrontation between peaceful female protesters and heavily armed male authorities, a dynamic that underscores themes of oppression and resistance. In contrast, the image taken by Lana Haroun centers on female leadership and empowerment, with Alaa Salah leading a crowd of women in protest. This shift in framing invites deeper consideration of the ways in which gendered perspectives influence not only the subject matter but also the emotional resonance and circulation of protest imagery.

These cases underscore the power of visual representation in advocacy, particularly with women as focal figures. Such images influence public perception, mobilize support, and shape the identities of resistance movements. Further research on the intersections of gender, visual storytelling, and social media virality could deepen our understanding of visual culture’s impact on political discourse.

Works Cited

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Bachman, J. (2016, August 11). Taking a stand in Baton Rouge. Reuters. https://widerimage.reuters.com/story/taking-a-stand-in-baton-rouge

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Cole, T. (2016, July 26). The Superhero Photographs of the Black Lives Matter Movement. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/31/magazine/the-superhero-photographs-of-the-black-lives-matter-movement.html

Croft, J. (2017, June 20). Philando Castile shooting: Dashcam video shows rapid event. CNN. https://www.cnn.com/2017/06/20/us/philando-castile-shooting-dashcam/index.html

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