On September 30, 2025, a curious image began circulating on social media: a screenshot of an internal chat from a group called "Genz 212 – France." The conversation, which quickly went viral, showed the group’s organizers meticulously searching for a volunteer with dual nationality living in Paris—someone who could officially request a permit from French authorities to hold a protest in the city. It was a routine step in France, where legal frameworks for public demonstrations are clearly defined. Yet, this seemingly straightforward act of compliance sparked a firestorm of debate, not just because of its local implications, but because of what it revealed about a much larger, global movement.
What made this moment so striking wasn’t just the procedural diligence—after all, in France, securing permission for a protest is part and parcel of civic life. Instead, the controversy revolved around a stark contrast: Why did the same movement, which so carefully followed French law, avoid engaging with Morocco’s legal channels for protest? In Morocco, supporters of the movement have mostly relied on digital activism and anonymous calls to action, with no real organizational body stepping forward to communicate with local authorities. This divergence raised uncomfortable questions about strategy, legitimacy, and the very nature of dissent in a connected world.
According to the chat screenshot, the group’s French leaders understood the importance of working within the legal system. Their request for a Paris-based, dual-nationality volunteer to submit the paperwork was more than just a bureaucratic hoop—it was an acknowledgment that, in France, the right to assemble and protest is protected, as long as procedures are respected. Observers in Morocco, however, noted the irony: Moroccan law also guarantees freedom of assembly and peaceful protest, provided organizers file a prior declaration with local authorities. This, in theory, ensures both the safety of demonstrators and the protection of public and private property. Yet, in practice, Moroccan activists have been hesitant—perhaps even unwilling—to formalize their efforts in the same way.
This discrepancy hasn’t gone unnoticed. Critics and supporters alike are asking: Why is there such a commitment to legal compliance in France, but not in Morocco? Is it a matter of trust in institutions, fear of reprisal, or simply a difference in political culture? Whatever the answer, the debate has highlighted a broader tension faced by youth-led movements worldwide—a tension between the desire for change and the realities of operating within (or outside of) existing legal frameworks.
But the story doesn’t end with paperwork and permits. In fact, the drama unfolding in Paris and Morocco is just one chapter in a much larger narrative—one that spans continents and cultures, all united by a single, unlikely symbol: the pirate flag from the Japanese manga One Piece.
First published in 1997 by artist Eiichiro Oda, One Piece has become a global phenomenon. With over 500 million copies sold, a long-running TV series, several live-action films, and a merchandising empire generating hundreds of millions of dollars each year for Bandai Namco, the manga’s cultural impact is hard to overstate. The story follows the Straw Hat Pirates, led by the irrepressible Monkey D. Luffy, as they challenge corrupt rulers, fight against slavery and racism, and attempt to topple the world government that rules the seas. Their flag—the so-called "Jolly Roger," featuring a grinning skull in a straw hat—has become one of the most recognizable logos in popular culture. As Le Monde put it, the flag is "unmistakable" to fans everywhere.
So, how did a manga pirate flag become the rallying cry for Gen Z protesters across the globe? According to Nuurrianti Jalli of Oklahoma State University, writing for The Conversation, the answer lies in the deep cultural resonance the symbol holds for young people. Gen Z, after all, grew up with One Piece. For them, the flag isn’t just a decorative flourish—it’s "an emblem of defiance and perseverance." Luffy’s ability to stretch beyond his physical limits, granted by a magical fruit, has become a metaphor for resilience in the face of adversity. His "unwavering quest for freedom against impossible odds" strikes a chord with youth navigating a world rife with corruption, inequality, and authoritarian excess.
The power of the One Piece flag, however, isn’t just in its message—it’s in its ambiguity. Unlike a political party logo, the Jolly Roger is rooted in popular culture, making it difficult for authorities to suppress without appearing heavy-handed. "Part of the flag’s effectiveness comes from its ambiguity," Jalli noted. This strategic vagueness allows protesters to signal dissent without aligning themselves with any specific ideology or party, offering both a shield and a banner under which disparate groups can unite.
Over the past couple of years, this symbol has popped up in protests from Jakarta to Paris, Kathmandu to New York. Its most viral moment came during the "Dark Indonesia" student protests in the summer of 2025, where students rallied against budget cuts and the growing influence of the military in civilian affairs. The flag was everywhere—waved at rallies, spray-painted on walls, and stuck to car windows. Its spread, according to one Indonesian resident quoted by the BBC, is "a symbol that we love this country, but don't completely agree with its policies." The ambiguity of the flag has not shielded it from criticism, however; lawmakers in Indonesia have called its use "an attempt to divide the nation," with some arguing it borders on treason.
Despite the backlash, the Jolly Roger has become the defining image of youth-led demonstrations across the region. In the Philippines, it was seen at anti-corruption marches; in Nepal, it featured in protests that contributed to the government’s downfall. Most recently, the flag has been spotted at demonstrations in Slovakia, Rome, New York, and Paris—its meaning resonating across borders as "a symbol of defiance and hope for Gen Z protesters," according to The Guardian.
This global adoption of the One Piece flag speaks volumes about how Gen Z is reshaping the cultural vocabulary of dissent. Where previous generations might have rallied under national or explicitly political banners, today’s youth are turning to symbols that are both personal and universal, playful yet deeply serious. The Jolly Roger, with its roots in fiction and its message of resistance, has become a canvas onto which young people can project their hopes, frustrations, and demands for change.
Back in Paris, as the "Genz 212 – France" group navigates the complexities of protest permits, and as their counterparts in Morocco debate the merits of legal versus digital activism, the pirate flag continues to fly—sometimes literally, sometimes as a digital meme, but always as a reminder that the language of protest is evolving. In a world where the lines between pop culture and politics are increasingly blurred, perhaps it’s no surprise that a manga pirate and his crew have become the unlikely standard-bearers for a generation determined to chart its own course.
