In late 2023, a TikTok from user @cressida.cretu made its way to my FYP. It was a slideshow of ten very similar low-resolution collage images, all constructed around the same two-element formula: a motion-blurred image of a 2000s-era vehicle caught mid-speed, with a close-up of female eyes hovering above it in the upper half of the image. The images had a rough quality to them, stitched together from a digital past that I grew up with. Blaring in the background was a compressed Euro house track. While I fully understand that the algorithm was serving me something it “knew” I would be interested in, the whole experience was bizarrely captivating. It had an undeniable early-internet energy, reminiscent of the rudimentary, experimental collages of the forum-era web. But it was something that could only truly exist in TikTok’s hyper-specific landscape. And weirdly enough, it felt Arab, depicted through the stereotypical, exoticized lens of an ancient web forum: Arabic licence plates, familiar desert landscapes, veiled women with heavily kohled eyes. The cultural specificity made it more compelling, albeit extremely vague. 

The top comment on the TikTok was (and still is): “WHAT IS THIS CORE?!” But literally, what is this core? Traditionally, the -core suffix has been used to describe the essential, defining element of a thing—its core. But, as the internet has mutated and evolved, -core has morphed into an umbrella term for entire aesthetics and trends, a way to categorise hyper-specific visual or cultural styles. Think #cottagecore, the 2020 pandemic-era TikTok hashtag/aesthetic that idealised slow life, simple living in the countryside, and so on. It often manifested in users showing their “slow life” rituals, sourdough and ruffle dresses included. Since then, it seems like every single word has been core-fied; dreamcore, witchcore, normcore, webcore. The list goes on supposedly infinitely, with each term describing a niche subculture. It’s even a struggle to put into words, which is why all of this content is visual and requires some sort of pre-existing understanding from those who “get it.” This is why when I finally discovered (from the comments) that the TikTok I saw is categorised under Arab driftcore, it kind of just made sense. Of course it’s Arab driftcore.

The intense core-ification and saturation of the internet have finally culminated in an ultimate form of sorts: corecore. If you’ve ever encountered #corecore on your TikTok FYP, which really depends on a multitude of factors varying from what you’ve fed the algorithm to your screen time, it’s a whole universe of crude, referential, DIY imagery. The essence of a #corecore video is pure chaos, a collection of rapid-fire archival internet footage and imagery strung together with no common theme or connecting thread, often to some sort of sad melancholic music (Aphex Twin, a lot of the time). It’s kind of like a reference of a reference of a reference to nothing, but still evoking a distinct emotional response. It’s a raw and unfiltered view of reality that often feels surreal, a collection of meme-like imagery that individually does not make “sense” until strung together. However, one thing remains true about all corecore content: the source, the inspiration, and the means of understanding it are all based on the hyper-saturated nature of the internet itself. There’s no storyline, no overt message, yet corecore has an immediate, almost instinctive readability. It’s as if our collective internet experience has trained us to understand it without explanation. The movement’s history (should it be described as such) is undocumented and depends on what source you’re referring to, but its presence is undeniable: for whatever reason, the kids on TikTok are making chaotic, emotionally charged montages, and it just makes sense.

Turning to the works of French sociologist Jean Baudrillard offers a theoretical anchor, if one should even want to make sense of the meaninglessness. The scholar’s writings on hyperreality and implosion provide a framework for understanding what happens when a system (here, the internet) reaches a point of saturation. Rather than expanding, it collapses in on itself, consumed by its own excess. The real is substituted for an image of itself, a simulacrum (an image or representation) that takes its place. When reality itself becomes unclear, the image detaches from its meaning, turning into an echo of what it was meant to represent. So what, then, is the meaning behind corecore? Is it a collective shared acknowledgement of meaninglessness in late-stage capitalism? A symptom of a generation drowning in digital saturation? Many readings are on the table, and they’re all viable.

Exploring the aesthetic through a more Arab lens, adjacent trends like #arabcore and #arabcorecore reveal a deep-seated nostalgia wrapped in early internet visuals and meme culture. If there’s one unifying thread, it’s this: a fixation on a past that feels both distant and dreamlike. Grainy footage of the early 2000s developing Gulf cities, pixelated 3D renders of the Egyptian pyramids, digitised posters of pop star Haifa Wehbe–it’s all there, scattered like fragments of a collective memory. The effect is an “I wish I was there” feeling for the platform’s Gen Z audience, one that’s echoed in the comments sections. Fantastical in presentation yet undeniably nostalgic, it’s a selective recollection of the past, altered and presented to possibly imagine a better, more hopeful version of the future.

It’s easy to dismiss this obsession with early internet aesthetics as a fad in a largely monolithic internetscape. After all, big tech companies have built it to be as such: streamlined, feed-based, and algorithmically controlled, where content is filtered through layers of back-end censorship and corporate interests. This has set off a relentless feedback loop, where content is created with the algorithm in mind: sleek, digestible infographics charting the timeline of yet another war, breakdowns of the hottest fashion trends for 2025, how to get flawless skin in five days tutorials, etc. Video content now depends on how good of a hook you have in the first three seconds. It’s a mix of negotiating with the scarce resources of the attention economy, while having Mark Zuckerberg breathing down your neck. In contrast, the chaotic, scattered, and unpredictable nature of these aesthetics feels rebellious, an antithesis to this sanitisation.

These offshoots don’t exist in a vacuum; they exist within and make sense within a digital landscape that has long been shaped by external forces. From its very inception, the internet has been shaped by an Anglocentric, Eurocentric framework as a direct result of Western technological dominance and its colonial backbone. English has long been the default language of digital discourse, shaping the way information is created, shared, and consumed. Despite this imbalance, Arab and Arabic iterations of the global internet, whether meme culture, aesthetics like corecore, or broader digital aesthetics, act as localised adaptations. They are not just carbon copies of Western trends but reinterpretations that reflect specific cultural experiences, histories, and lived realities. In this sense, the embrace of chaotic, early-internet-inspired aesthetics is a way of reclaiming digital space.

The early internet was built on an idealistic vision: an open, borderless space where information could flow freely, traditional media censorship could be bypassed, and global communication would be unfiltered and democratised. It was the digital equivalent of the Wild West. But fast-forward a couple of decades, and that utopian promise feels like a distant illusion. The very use of the Wild West as a metaphor for the early internet is, in itself, a revealing irony.

In a post-October 7 world, for those who hadn’t been paying attention, the guise has been lifted. The internet’s modus operandi is clearer than ever, with its biases, and those who instill them, laid bare. As the world bears witness to genocide in Gaza, the struggle over digital space, who gets to speak, who gets to be heard, and who is systematically silenced, has never been more urgent. Questions of online censorship, algorithmic suppression, and the reclamation of digital narratives are no longer abstract debates; they are pressing realities with life-or-death consequences. In response, internet artists and meme creators (arguably interchangeable) have turned to the internet itself, finding inventive ways to navigate an increasingly oppressive online landscape. In practice, their efforts mimic the rebellious spirit of the early internet, repurposing its DIY ethos of coded language and visually chaotic storytelling. 

Dialogues on CoreCore and the Contemporary Online Avant-Garde is an art book and a collection of essays that situates corecore within a “contemporary online avant-garde,” examining how digital spaces foster new artistic movements and discourse. It explores how the movement reflects internet-age alienation and identity. The book does not seek a singular conclusion but rather presents multiple perspectives, one of which suggests that corecore and adjacent aesthetics may serve as practical tools of resistance.

 

“WE ARE MARTYRS TOGETHER”

This idea finds a parallel in Palestinian artist Dana Dawud’s short film Palcorecore, a six-minute collection of archival footage and imagery from Palestine, mainly Gaza, woven together without chronology or linear narrative. The visuals flow fluidly and quickly, showing a fragmented yet deeply evocative portrayal of Palestinian life. An alien-like female voice provides narration over the visuals with a half-hushed delivery. “I witness you witness me. We are martyrs together,” the voice announces at one point, as young Palestinian boys leap above the rubble, practising parkour. The images “make sense” if you’re familiar with the visual world and symbols being presented: Al Aqsa Mosque, Handala, the Gazan sea and its significance… It’s a network of imagery that works together to shape the viewer’s reading of the film.

The making process of the film even adds further context to the fragmented DIY nature of the film. Dawud edited the film on her phone, sourcing the visuals from The Internet Archive by searching Palestine and landing on 1990s and 2000s archival material from the Palestinian Satellite Channel. As for the script, it was compiled from tweets that had no actual relation to Palestine, from an account where the user was erratically and nonsensically tweeting (“schizoposting”) about heaven and martyrdom.

The film emerges as a direct counterpoint to the flood of images coming out of Palestine throughout the genocide, reclaiming visual representation through an archival lens and the fragmented language of corecore. Rejecting the reductive portrayal of Palestinians solely as victims, it embraces what Dawud calls the “martyr-image.” This archival piece not only affirms that Palestinian life is complex and multifaceted, but it asserts that it always has been, declaring identity and existence on its own terms. Palcorecore, at its core, underscores the power of images not just as documentation, but as an act of resistance, a forceful narrative reclamation in the face of overwhelming adversity.

“ You’re cutting and choosing and putting stuff together. You’re grabbing these fleeting digital images that are very far apart and you’re bringing them together to interact with one another,” she explains in a conversation with ICON MENA. “There’s something haunting and powerful about these images. A lot of these places and people do not exist anymore. Are we looking back or are we actually looking for the first time? The same events have been happening for years and years. There are so many images of Palestine, and even if we see them sometimes we’re just not looking. We’re not actually witnessing them.”

These images have existed for decades, embedded in both our screens and collective consciousness. It’s a question that lingers in discussions about Gaza, among scholars, journalists, and ordinary people alike. We have seen. We continue to see. But then what? What is the purpose of an image if not to incite action? While Dawud’s film reshapes archival footage into an artistic reflection on resistance, other internet artists take a different approach, repurposing these same images not as abstract expression, but as documentation.

Palestine Online is a digital archive created by software engineer and digital archivist Amad Ansari, dedicated to preserving the early internet landscape of Palestine. In response to the events of October 7, Ansari also turned to the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine, sifting through old GIFs tagged with “Palestine” and stringing together 1990s and 2000s-era web pages spanning personal blogs, news sites, and discussion forums.

“In the context of Palestine, anything is important to archive in order to confirm history, as they’re often denied their own history, and often the victims of re-structured and falsified histories in order to justify and support the occupational state of Israel,” explains Ansari of his motivation behind the project.

It all looks very charming, embellished with pixelated graphics, colourful animated GIFs, and quirky colourful web designs. To make navigation easier, Ansari packaged the web pages under different topic-specific categories. Browsing through the Gaza web pages, you will find the website for the Gaza International Airport, which was destroyed by Israeli Occupation Forces in 2001. A jittery replaying animation of a plane taking off plays endlessly, revealing text that reads “A SIGN OF INDEPENDENCE.” The site also details all the services and facilities provided, entry conditions, and more. Elsewhere in the archive, an interactive map of Palestine invites visitors to click through the names of destroyed Palestinian villages that no longer exist, telling stories of destruction and displacement. But perhaps the most intimate section is the “Personal Homepages” category, a collection of personal blogs. One page opens with a barrage of fiery animations, one of them flashing the words: “PALESTINE THE FIRE OF YOUR HEART.” Looking through the archive feels surreal. It’s a jarring mix of playful, early-internet aesthetics juxtaposed with the weight of a historical record of occupation, resistance, and martyrdom. 

“[The internet now] feels overwhelming,” Ansari tells ICON MENA. “It is an unfortunate reality that the modern user interface is created by big corporations that have financial incentives to keep users hooked to their screens, and when this comes into [the] intersection of footage that we see of war crimes and genocide, it can be really overwhelming. However, on the flipside, we are living in an era where history doesn’t take years to be fully realised and discovered. Living these truths and having them exposed in real-time around the world creates more acceleration and urgency for far-reaching movements and change in public opinion in a way that couldn’t have been done in generations before.”

This real-time exposé Ansari references is most clearly reflected in the meme pages that exist alongside, and draw heavily from, early internet aesthetics movements. These pages employ the same visual devices, distorted imagery layered in symbolism and coded language, to navigate the heavily policed landscape of social media. Functioning within the constraints of the damning algorithm and legacy media institutions, they repurpose the aesthetics of chaos, and in the case of Gaza, war and death, as a route to subversion.

In their essay Ecosystem of an Arab Meme, visual artist Noura Tafeche and researcher Basem Kharma posit that these pages offer a more authentic perspective on global events, created by and for Arabs. This allows people to express themselves and see their own political ideas reflected in ways that feel true to their experiences. They offer a window into the “non-Western zeitgeist” that could only be understood by someone with the shared cultural context, without interest in pandering to the moral sensibilities of the West, nor being held accountable as such. 

These meme pages act anonymously and care little for explanation or providing the required context to understand the content. There’s no preoccupation with authorship, tracing back the origins of an image a reshared visual, the meme exists to be seen as it is presented. Just have a quick look at @lilithpal85311, @melancholyasylum, or @onewiththeinternet. Captions are kept short and cryptic, packed with sharp humour. It’s commentary and non-commentary in one, implicit yet hysterically direct.

“Memes are powerful because they strip that weight down into something digestible. They can carry layers of meaning in a way that people absorb without resistance. Instead of presenting information in an overwhelming, rigid format, memes sneak past emotional barriers – they make people laugh, think, or even feel seen in their frustration. They act as Trojan horses for radical thought,” explains @onewiththeinternet. “[In the context of Gaza], the mainstream media’s deliberate silence was met with an online uprising where memes, viral posts, and citizen documentation became the primary source of information. That’s why memes are an effective form of resistance. They cut through noise, challenge power structures, and reshape narratives in real-time. They’re not just jokes; they’re cultural weapons.”

“SOME CALL IT SCREENSHOTTING WE CALL IT ARCHIVING” reads one of the memes on the page. It’s a poignant focus on the collective “we” in this equation, and the awareness that we are engaged in a collective exercise of negotiating meaning and identity. This essay makes a strenuous effort to connect a uniquely subjective experience of watching a bizarre TikTok with a searing nostalgia for early internet aesthetics, and how Arab-centric uses of these aesthetics act as a form of resistance during an unprecedented moment in the internet’s (and world’s) history. 

It’s a long line of thought, but the leap is not too big. Even though the internet infrastructure itself has stabilised to some extent, the content on it is morphing, shaped by a globality of ephemeral, imperfect aesthetics that reflect a disparity of power in its history and expose the workings of big tech. Every now and then, you will stumble on a piece of content that breaks the fourth wall and snaps you out of the endless doom scroll the algorithm has trapped you in. A screenshot of a screenshot with a username burnt into it, a collection of found footage stitched together to no apparent avail—something that will remind you that you’re not just looking into a screen that is engineered to absorb you completely, but through it. A recognition that realising the code of the machine, and playing into it, not only reveals its secrets, it disrupts them too.

________

WORDS: Hadi Afif