We all know that Oxford can feel like a bubble. Every day brings new challenges and new deadlines, to the extent that a week can pass in an instant and there is just no time to peek outside of the blinkered existence of tutorials and the occasional pub trip. But this tunnel vision can become restrictive, and even self-perpetuating. The hourly sunny notifications I receive from the BBC on the state of the world have become more and more easy to force to the back of my mind as I hurry from the Schwarzman to the Taylorian and back under a perpetually grey but evidently not-on-fire sky. It’s very easy, and almost necessary, to be an ostrich and stick your head in the sand, if it means I am able to desperately string ideas together to finish my third essay in a week.
The rise in nihilism (or ‘Doomerism’) in Gen Z is nothing new. In nihilism, everything is temporary by definition. If the world is going to burn in a few years, then we might as well enjoy ourselves instead of worrying about the next Prime Minister or saving for a house, right? If you have to work, it can feel more rational to spend the money you earn on something you’ll actually enjoy now, rather than saving it for a rainy day – especially when it feels like it’s been raining since 2008. Whether it manifests in politics, the economy, or the environment, this turn towards nihilistic thinking in general indicates a growing detachment from long-term planning, rooted in the belief that caring too much about the future may no longer be worthwhile.
It doesn’t help that Gen Z is so often told it must save the world from itself. During Freshers’ Week, we were informed that we would contribute to the totality of the world’s knowledge, as if this fate were already mapped out for us: Don’t worry, privileged student, you’ve been accepted into a Hub Of Learning and can now be an upstanding, caring citizen by default. I remember telling my mother (Professor of Responsible Leadership, Improving Diversity, and Generally Making the World a Better Place) what I wanted to study, only to be asked what was useful about it.
The uncomfortable answer is that it isn’t. When the planet already feels like it’s in ruins, emerging with a Masters in some niche corner of French literary history does seem like a somewhat absurd endeavour. The guilt of not contributing towards a better future with each passing moment can lead to inertia: not feeling able or willing to do small things because I can’t single handedly save the world. This is even more prevalent in Oxford’s culture, where it can feel like nothing is of value unless perfect, especially if I’m already battling twelve essays a term.Â
In this light, an impulse towards nihilistic thinking makes sense. Except I’m not enjoying the present moment so much as wallowing in perpetual existential crises about how it’s possible for the older generations to have put us in this position, knowing the answer, knowing we’re just as bad, and resenting them for it anyway.
But if I’ve convinced myself of the futility of any action, am I let off the hook? Is my existential dismissal therefore just an easy way out, contributing to this paralysis? It is, after all, much easier to relax by doomscrolling and online shopping when you’re not worried about the environmental impact.
Nonetheless, reminders of how badly we need change are constant, even as I brush them away to deliver a well-formed argument about the far-right at a formal, clinging to a semblance of sanity. That is, until my friend in Oregon asks me, joking-not-joking, if she could marry me for an Irish passport. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore another headline about short-sighted political decisions as I’m distracted by a notification that fossil fuels weren’t mentioned in the last COP30 summit during my essay crisis in the RadCam, all the while feeling morally superior for using Ecosia instead of Google. There’s only so far performative sustainability can go in relieving climate guilt.
But the only way to escape fearing the crushing inadequacy of anything you could potentially do is to start doing it. And as much as I would love to be able to give up on everything outside my control, as many wellness podcasts would advise me, my sense of privileged moral guilt is too strong for me to not have a conscience, so ignoring everything is, unfortunately, impossible. This is what worries people looking at Gen Z nihilism from the outside: if nothing matters, what is the motivation to do good in society?
The answer lies in the present moment. Nihilism as an all-encompassing worldview can start to feel oppressive, but by taking myself away from the endless feed of bad news, I’ve started to notice what can be done, rather than what can’t. Even with Oxford’s busy schedule, meaning can be found in something as simple as finding joy shopping in Oxunboxed, the student-run refill shop, or joining your college’s Climate Society. By paying attention to the small things, we can discover what does matter. If life in general is meaningless, we are, at least, free to try to make the present moment as good as we can, and to inspire others to do the same.
So, I’ll make my money count. I’ll go to a protest. I’ll vote for a Green Party councillor. This year I’ve decided that it’s about time I start acting like the integral part of this country’s future that the University tells me I am. Because if every member of Gen Z who cares in silence starts shouting about it, we might actually get somewhere.
