Banned Books Week just ended, but the fight it highlights continues every other week of the year. This year’s theme was Censorship is So 1984: Read for Your Rights, invoking George Orwell’s famous novel to warn against the dangers of banning books. It was a powerful rallying cry. But now that the week has ended, we need to face two uncomfortable truths: first, censorship isn’t a relic of 1984. It’s alive and well in 2025. And second, censorship doesn’t just happen on its own. There are people doing it, and we can’t fight what we refuse to name—not just for one week, but every week of the year.
Orwell understood this. In "1984," the nightmare of totalitarianism has many faces. There’s Big Brother, the ever-present symbol of state control. There’s O’Brien, who personally tortures Winston Smith until he betrays everything he believes. The horror of Orwell’s world is embodied by specific people wielding immense power. The novel works because it shows us that oppression requires oppressors. Fascism doesn’t maintain itself. People maintain it.
So why, in 2025, when book banning has reached levels not seen in decades, do we talk about censorship as if it’s a weather pattern—something that just happens? Why do we avoid naming the school board members, the politicians, the activists, and the organizations actively working to remove books from libraries and classrooms?
Research shows that there is power in naming. It’s why authoritarian regimes work so hard to hide the machinery of their control. It’s why journalism matters. When we name the people behind harmful actions, we make accountability possible. We turn abstract problems into concrete ones that can be addressed, challenged, and changed.
Right now, across the country, individuals like Jennifer Petersen are attending school board meetings with lists of books to ban. Organizations like Moms for Liberty and MassResistance are coordinating challenges to remove books about racism, LGBTQ+ experiences, and sexual health from school libraries. Elected officials like Governor Kim Reynolds and Representative Donna Schaibley are passing laws that threaten librarians with criminal charges. These aren’t shadowy forces. They’re our neighbors, our officials, our fellow citizens. And many of them are quite proud of their work.
Yet much of the resistance to book banning remains frustratingly vague. For instance, the official Banned Books Week website states that “pressure groups and government entities that include elected officials, board members, and administrators initiated 72% of demands to censor books in school and public libraries.” Those groups, entities, and officials remain hidden behind their titles. And it’s impossible to effectively oppose what we refuse to clearly identify.
Some might argue that naming names is divisive because it personalizes fights that should remain about principles. But censorship is personal. It’s personal to the teenager who can’t find a book that reflects their experience. It’s personal to the author whose work is labeled obscene. It’s personal to the librarian threatened with prosecution. It’s personal to the Black girl whose teacher is scared to teach a book about her experiences in the world. The people banning books have made it personal. Our response should match that reality.
Others might rightfully worry about harassment or escalation against those we name. But there’s an important distinction: accountability flows upward toward power, while harassment punches down toward the vulnerable. Documenting which elected officials vote to ban books, which well-funded organizations coordinate censorship campaigns, and which activists organize at public meetings is democratic transparency, especially when these same individuals already operate publicly and proudly. It’s not the same as targeting a private citizen for their personal beliefs.
In fact, the book banners aren’t hiding. Many proudly post photos of the books they’ve successfully removed. They celebrate their victories at conferences and in press releases. They run for office on platforms of “protecting children” by limiting what they can read. If they’re willing to put their names on their work, why shouldn’t we?
Beyond Banned Books Week, we should absolutely read for our rights. We should celebrate challenged authors and defend intellectual freedom. But we should also do something more: we should name the censors. We should document which school board members vote to remove books and why. We should identify which organizations are training parents to file mass challenges. We should track which politicians are turning book banning into a campaign strategy.
Orwell gave us Winston Smith to help us understand the victim’s experience of totalitarianism. But he also gave us Big Brother and O’Brien so we’d understand that oppression has authors. The Ministry of Truth doesn’t run itself.
The fight for intellectual freedom is against specific actions by specific people. We don’t have to accept a model where power hides behind abstractions. In 2025, censorship isn’t a dystopian metaphor. It’s a coordinated effort by identifiable people with names, faces, and power. The censors are here, they’re visible, and they’re counting on us not to name them. Banned Books Week may be over, but the work must continue—fifty-two weeks a year.
Stephanie Toliver is a Public Voices Fellow and a member of the OpEd Alumni Project sponsored by the University of Illinois.
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Michelle Witthoeft, Ashli Babbitt’s mother, participates in a demonstration in support of insurrectionists who were arrested and charged following the January 6, 2021 attack on the U.S. Capitol. (Tasos Katopodis/Getty Images)
