The 60‑Second Politician: Youth Votes in the Age of Social Media and Global Politics

By Indira Kelly

Catherine Connolly and Zohran Mamdani don’t look like natural allies. Connolly, a woman in her sixties from Ireland, has spent decades in cultural advocacy and local politics. Mamdani, a 34‑year‑old man from New York, is a rising progressive voice in American state politics. Yet they share one thing that matters more than biography: both cracked the code of the youth vote. And they did it not with policy papers or debate performances, but with Instagram reels and TikTok clips.

Connolly’s feed was a study in charm. Forget the manifesto, she posted herself juggling a soccer ball, laughing with students, and sharing candid moments that felt more like a friend’s story than a politician’s broadcast. Mamdani’s approach was equally savvy. His TikToks featured lip‑syncs, neighborhood walks, and direct‑to‑camera bursts of personality. Neither asked young voters to wade through legislative detail. They offered something far more potent: relatability.

The payoff was immediate. Youth turnout surged in both constituencies, reversing years of hand‑wringing about political apathy. For once, the youngest voters weren’t staying home; they were showing up!

That’s the good news. The bad news is how this can be exploited. If young people are making political choices based on 60‑second videos, they are not necessarily engaging with policy, debate, or fact. They are responding to performance. Social media is built to entertain, not to explain. Algorithms reward spectacle like soccer tricks, lip‑syncs, and memes while burying nuance. You won’t recall Mamdani’s legislative priorities, but his “Subway Takes” duet will live in your head rent-free.

This is where manipulation creeps in. Politicians who master the mechanics of virality can bypass persuasion altogether. They don’t need to win arguments; they need to win attention. And attention, once captured, can be converted into loyalty. The risk is obvious: youth voters, newly energized, may also be easily swayed by whoever entertains them most convincingly.

Connolly and Mamdani outperformed their rivals precisely because they understood this logic. Their competitors stuck to the old playbook of formal speeches, scripted ads and pro-establishment rhetoric. To younger audiences, that felt distant, even alien. Connolly’s soccer tricks and Mamdani’s TikTok duets weren’t policy explanations, but they were cultural signals. They spoke the language of youth culture, and in doing so, they built trust. That trust translated into turnout.

The paradox is sharp. On one hand, youth participation is a democratic victory. A generation long dismissed as disengaged is finally flexing its power. On the other hand, if that power is shaped primarily by short‑form spectacle, it risks becoming shallow and reactive. The qualities that make someone a successful influencer are not the qualities that make someone a successful politician . Yet in the current media environment, those influencer skills may matter more at the ballot box than any legislative record. One must wonder how many young people cannot even name their own mayor, yet were fully engrossed in Mamdami’s online campaign. Does this suggest we are captivated more by persona than politics?

Social media isn’t going away. It will remain a powerful tool for mobilisation, connection, and visibility on both sides of the political spectrum. But we should be clear‑eyed about its limits. Visibility is not substance. A democracy, or more precisely, a generation of voters, built on Instagram stories risks being manipulated by personality over policy. The challenge for young voters is not to abandon the platforms they live on, but to demand more than a viral reel before casting a ballot.

Connolly and Mamdani’s success shows what social media can do. It also shows what it can undo. The future of politics may be decided not in debates or manifestos, but in the fleeting attention span of a 60‑second clip. And that should make us pause.