It started with a gunshot, then another, and another. In 1993, Bernadette Leite’s 17-year-old son Khalil was killed in a random act of violence. In the wake of that tragedy, Leite was propelled into something greater than grief. What began as a personal healing journey grew into a mission to support young survivors of violence. Her story is not isolated; it echoes the pain of millions who have lost loved ones to senseless gun violence.
As we reflect on the deadly shootings of recent memory (Uvalde, Buffalo, Las Vegas, El Paso), each anniversary becomes not only a moment of mourning but a renewed rallying cry. Among the most prominent responses to this crisis was the March for Our Lives (MFOL), born from the tragedy at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, on February 14, 2018. On that day, 17 lives were lost. In the days that followed, survivors turned their grief into fuel for activism.
They refused to be silent. They rejected the normalization of school shootings. Within weeks, they mobilized more than a million people to protest across the country, demanding an end to gun violence through urgent reforms.
What made MFOL different from the many protests that came before? The United States has seen decades of mass shootings, including Columbine, Aurora, Sandy Hook, and the Pulse Nightclub. Yet, it was Parkland that catalyzed a new wave of youth-led resistance. Timing played a key role. In a digital era where traditional media gatekeepers hold less power, Parkland survivors took control of their narrative, leveraging platforms like Twitter and Instagram to confront lawmakers directly and amplify their message globally.
MFOL had the perfect storm: the raw energy of youth, digital tools, survivor testimonies, and national attention. Students like Emma González and David Hogg became household names — not because they were celebrities, but because they were credible witnesses to a national failure. González’s silence during her speech at the national march became an unforgettable symbol of loss. Hogg transitioned from a grieving teen to a political organizer, co-founding MFOL and later becoming the youngest vice chair of the Democratic National Committee. His journey underscores a crucial evolution for activist movements: from protest to policymaking.
Still, the road from outrage to action was never straightforward. While MFOL generated immense public support, legislative change — especially at the federal level — remained frustratingly slow. The movement’s core demands, including universal background checks and a ban on assault weapons, were met with political resistance, particularly from powerful groups like the National Rifle Association.
This dynamic raises a compelling question: If movements like the anti-abortion campaign in America succeeded in reshaping the legal landscape, culminating in the 2022 reversal of Roe v. Wade, why has gun control, despite broad public backing, not seen the same outcome?
The pro-life movement’s success can be traced to its relentless, decades-long strategy: mobilizing at the local and state levels, influencing judicial appointments, and maintaining a disciplined political message. MFOL, in contrast, while morally urgent and media-savvy, has struggled to sustain momentum in a fractured political climate. Its victories, although meaningful, have been modest.
After the Parkland shooting, Florida passed the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School Public Safety Act, raising the minimum age to purchase firearms to 21 and enabling law enforcement to confiscate weapons from individuals deemed dangerous. Federally, the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act of 2022 was a milestone. It expanded background checks for buyers under 21, funded mental health programs, and closed the “boyfriend loophole.” These steps, however, fell short of the comprehensive reforms that MFOL envisioned.
This tension between public will and political inertia offers vital lessons for global movements. Protest is not just about numbers — it’s about strategy. MFOL succeeded in humanizing the crisis. Survivors’ stories became the heart of the movement, forcing the public to confront the real toll of violence. Bernadette Leite’s story, and those of parents like Fred Guttenberg, who lost his daughter Jaime in Parkland, remind us that every policy delay has a face, a name, a heartbreak.
Guttenberg once said, “I will do everything I can to ensure we fire every single elected person who continues to fail on this issue. All I want to do is stop the next one.” That spirit has kept MFOL alive, even when headlines moved on.
But movements cannot rely on emotion alone. Many protests, both in the U.S. and globally, lose steam once the initial surge of outrage fades. The Silent March in Washington, D.C., which displayed thousands of shoes to represent lives lost to gun violence, was visually striking but lacked the organizational infrastructure to convert symbolism into law. Similarly, protests focused on climate justice, gender equality, and refugee rights often face challenges in translating awareness into policy.
What MFOL teaches is the importance of evolution. Protests must adapt, build coalitions, nurture leadership, and stay relevant. Activism must become institutionalized — not only through nonprofit work but through electoral politics, lobbying, and judicial advocacy. David Hogg’s shift from streets to strategy is a prime example of this trajectory.
The movement also demonstrated the value of youth voices. Young people brought urgency, clarity, and authenticity to the conversation. They refused to be sidelined. In doing so, they inspired parallel efforts across the globe from Hong Kong’s democracy protests to Nigeria’s #EndSARS movement, where young leaders used digital tools and firsthand experience to challenge systems of power.
Even in a divided political landscape, MFOL managed to shift the discourse. Gun control, once a politically toxic issue, is now a central debate in national elections. While sweeping change remains elusive, the movement has made it clear: The conversation has changed forever.
As we look to the future, one truth remains: A single march cannot end systemic injustice. Change requires persistence, organization, and an unwavering belief in the possibility of a safer world. Protest alone is not the endpoint; it’s the ignition. What matters most is what comes next.
The shoes on the capitol steps in the ’90s may have lost their media spotlight, but their symbolism remains. Each pair is a silent testimony to lives lost and battles still to be won. Like Bernadette Leite’s story, they remind us that real change comes not from the march itself, but from the movement it builds.
In the words often attributed to Edmund Burke, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” MFOL showed the world what happens when young people decide to do something, and the world should take note.
Victory Anase Momoh is a graduate student in the Global Communications and Journalism Department at Morgan State University.