In the spring
of 2020, while the world stayed indoors to suppress Covid-19, arsonists
attacked mobile phone masts in Britain, Ireland, the Netherlands,
Australia and New Zealand. They set fire to nearly a hundred masts in
the UK, or tried to; there were twenty attacks over the
Easter weekend alone, including one on a mast serving a Birmingham
hospital. The arsonists believed that the latest mobile phone
technology, 5G, was the real cause of the pandemic. They imagined a
worldwide conspiracy: either the unexpectedly genocidal effects of the
5G rollout were being covered up by faking a pandemic, or 5G was being
used deliberately to kill huge numbers of people and help enslave
whoever was left. In the actual world, 5G’s feeble radio waves aren’t
capable of any of this – you’d get more radiation standing near a baby
monitor – but the fire-setters are unheedful of that world.
As
well as the anti-5G insurgency, the conspiracist assault on the
mainstream approach to coronavirus takes the form of a suspicion of
vaccination, an older concern than 5G-phobia and more of an obstacle to
governments’ plans to contain the virus. But the encounter between
conspiracy theory and Covid-19 isn’t as clear-cut as that. When the
pandemic hit, social media, hyper-partisan broadcasters, Trump-era
populism and conspiracy theory were already creating a self-contained
alternative political thought space conducive to the cross-fertilisation
of conspiracist ideas. Covid-19 and government efforts to control it –
an extreme event, accompanied by what can seem baffling and intrusive
restrictions – appear, in the conspiracist mind, as the most open moves
yet by a secret group of sadistic tyrants who want to reduce the human
population and enslave those who remain. The pandemic and official
countermeasures are interpreted as proof, and Covid becomes the string
on which any and all conspiracy theories may be threaded. Seen through
the conspiracist filter, by forcing us to wear masks, by closing bars
and isolating the frail elderly, by trying to terrify us over, as they
see it, a dose of flu, or by microwaving us with 5G, the secret elite
has shown its hand.
Now that its existence, nature and power have
been proved to us, why shouldn’t we believe that the members of this
group arranged 9/11? Or that Bill Gates is planning to kill us with
vaccines, or inject us with nanochips hidden in vaccines, or both? Why
shouldn’t the entire course of world events have been planned by a group
of elite families hundreds, even thousands, of years ago? Why shouldn’t
there be a link between the bounds to individual freedoms that
governments have drawn up to slow climate change and the restrictions
they’re carrying out in the name of beating Covid? Surely these two
hoaxes are cooked up by the same firm, with the same agenda? Why, as
followers of the American conspiracy theory known as QAnon insist,
shouldn’t a group of politicians, tycoons and celebrities be kidnapping
and torturing children on a massive scale?
A large survey in May
conducted by researchers in Oxford found that only about half of English
adults were free of what they termed ‘conspiracy thinking.’
Three-quarters of the population have doubts about the official
explanations of the cause of the pandemic; most people think there’s at
least a chance it was man-made. Almost half think it may have been
deliberately engineered by China against ‘the West’. Between a fifth and
a quarter are ready to blame Jews, Muslims or Bill Gates, or to give
credence to the idea that ‘the elite have created the virus in order to
establish a one-world government’; 21 per cent believe – a little,
moderately, a lot or definitely – that 5G is to blame, about the same
number who think it is ‘an alien weapon to destroy humanity’. Conspiracy
beliefs, the researchers concluded, were ‘likely to be both indexes and
drivers of societal corrosion ...
Fringe beliefs may now be mainstream. A previously defining element
that the beliefs are typically only held by a minority may require
revision ... Healthy scepticism may have tipped over into a breakdown of trust.’
A friend, a BBC
journalist, told me about a conversation he’d had with an acquaintance
who began talking about the dangers of 5G and claimed that ‘every time a
new kind of electromagnetic energy is invented, it causes a new kind of
disease, like the invention of radar caused Spanish flu.’
‘But Spanish flu happened in 1918, and radar wasn’t invented till the 1930s,’ my friend said.
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ This was uttered without a trace of a smile.
One
Saturday afternoon in August, during the deceptive summer lull in
coronavirus cases in England, I went to an anti-lockdown rally in
Trafalgar Square. I heard about it from a Facebook group I’d joined. The
group has a strong conspiracist slant, but most of its nearly 13,000
members (there are many similar groups) prefer to think of what they’re
doing as ‘truth seeking’, hence the group’s name, Truth Seekers UK.
Polls suggest that most people feel the blunt instrument of lockdown
works, in the sense that it stops hospitals being overwhelmed, but it
would be a weak society where nobody challenged new restrictions on
individual freedom. Some enforcement of the rules, like police drones
tracking hikers on moorland, has been overzealous. But the protesters at
this rally weren’t interested in arguments about whether lockdowns are a
mistake, or whether the enforcement of mask-wearing is pointless, or
over the balance between protecting livelihoods and protecting lives.
The people here believed in a malignant hidden hand behind everything
that was happening and everything that has ever happened. They denied
that the virus was real. For many non-conspiracists, the sight of
upwards of five thousand people from all over southern England crammed
together shoulder to shoulder without face masks in Central London, in
defiance of the rules against large gatherings, would seem a display of
selfishness provocative enough to justify its being broken up by the
police. But what is democracy without political protest? And it was
a genuine political protest. It was an anti-government demonstration,
and the participants had sincerely held convictions. And yet the star
speaker at this rally, supposedly organised to fly the flag of
resistance to state oppression, was David Icke.
Icke was a BBC
sports presenter in the 1980s, smooth, bland and remarkable only for a
certain glassy coldness of manner. Before that he’d been a professional
footballer. At a time when Britain had a handful of TV channels, everyone knew his face. Shortly before he left the BBC
in 1990 he experienced a metaphysical epiphany in a newsagent’s on the
Isle of Wight. Not long afterwards, via sessions with the late Betty
Shine, a self-proclaimed psychic and bestselling writer of New Age
books, and a transcendental episode in a storm on a hilltop in Peru, he
declared he’d been chosen by a benign godlike agency as a vehicle for
the revelation of truths essential to the survival of Earth and
humanity. In an appearance on Terry Wogan’s chat show – notorious for
Icke’s turquoise tracksuit and Wogan’s observation to his guest, about
the sniggering audience, ‘They’re laughing at you, they’re not laughing
with you’ – he denied claiming to be Jesus Christ, insisting he was
merely the latest in a line of prophets that numbered Jesus as one of
its more distinguished old boys.
That was in 1991. Since then,
Icke has worked on his material and his brand, developing his following,
writing books, and giving lectures and interviews around the world.
Last year he was banned from entering Australia but in 2018 he was still
welcomed by large audiences in municipal venues in English towns, where
his fans sat peaceably as slides showed George Soros with reptilian
eyes, in a corona of hellfire, with the caption: ‘George Soros:
Personification of Evil.’ Covid-19 has boosted his profile. In May,
following an appeal from the Centre for Countering Digital Hate, which
pointed out that millions of people had been exposed to online material
in which he blamed Jews for the pandemic, denied the reality of
Covid-19, played down the infectiousness of viruses in general and lent
support to 5G conspiracists, both Facebook and YouTube – though not
Twitter – took down Icke’s pages. The action had no appreciable effect
on his profile, except perhaps to give him the lustre of the martyr.
YouTube, and YouTube wannabes like BrandNewTube, are still thick with
Icke interviews by small-time videocasters. Google will point you to
them. And although he has been banned from Facebook, his fans haven’t,
nor have links to his material. The first thing I saw when I last
checked the TruthSeekers UK Facebook group was a video interview with him. Amazon still distributes his books.
The
conspiracy narrative Icke began to weave in the early 1990s is a
sprawling affair that changes to follow the headlines, veers off on
tangents and is full of internal inconsistencies, but some core elements
remain. Icke’s story bears similarities to the influential American
conspiracist text Behold a Pale Horse by William Cooper (which
was published at about the time Icke reinvented himself as a prophet),
and to the pseudo-leaks that drive QAnon, though QAnon tends to avoid
the extraterrestrial. A cursory and much rationalised summary of Icke’s
conspiracy theory goes like this: thousands of years ago, a race of
reptilian beings from another world drew up a marvellously slow plan for
the enslavement of humanity, to be carried out by a tiny elite of
either – the exact mechanism varies – human proxies of surpassing
wickedness, or reptiles in human form. (‘I once had an extraordinary
experience with former prime minister Ted Heath,’ Icke told the Guardian in 2006. ‘Both of his eyes, including the whites, turned jet black.’)
The
plan continues to unfold, regularly missing prophesied deadlines. Only
an awakening of ordinary humans from the slumber of ignorance, prompted
by heeding the truths revealed by Icke and his ilk, can save humanity.
Many of the elite, according to Icke, are Jewish, and his conspiracy
theory, like so many conspiracy theories, has a strongly antisemitic
slant. (The word cabal, which I found myself using in the first draft of this piece, is from the classical Hebrew word qabbalah, ‘tradition’.) In his book And the Truth Shall Set You Free
he says we don’t really know what happened in the Holocaust, and that
‘a small Jewish clique which has contempt for the mass of Jewish people
worked with non-Jews to create the First World War, the Russian
Revolution, and the Second World War.’
There was
no sign of Icke when I arrived in Trafalgar Square. Piers Corbyn, whose
brother, the former Labour leader, can’t be held responsible for him,
was speaking. Piers Corbyn is a physicist and one-time commercial
meteorologist who believes that man-made climate change is a hoax. His
new cause is the iniquity of lockdown. He had already been arrested
several times; before the day was out he would be arrested again for
helping organise the demonstration (he was later fined). He told the
crowd through a scratchy sound system that Covid-19 was no worse than
the flu, and was killing fewer people than lockdown. ‘Whether you
believe the virus is a hoax or not, there is no justification in any
terms for the Covid lockdown rules,’ he declared. The crowd had no doubt
where they stood. They began to chant the title of a pseudo-documentary
called Plandemic, massively popular online, in which an
American scientist called Judy Mikovits tells a string of fluent lies
about the pandemic: that the virus was artificially made infectious to
humans in a joint effort by labs in Wuhan, North Carolina and Maryland;
that Anthony Fauci, America’s Covid-19 point man, was hiding the fact
that it was virtually harmless for his own financial benefit.
‘Plan-demic!’ yelled thousands in unison. ‘Plan-demic! Plan-demic!’
After
Corbyn had finished, one of the organisers of the event, a suspended
nurse called Kate Shemirani (she also believes Covid-19 is a hoax, but
thinks its symptoms were deliberately triggered by 5G to provide the
elite with an excuse to vaccinate the population with a mind-control
vaccine), introduced Mark Steele, a former bouncer from Gateshead who
heads an anti-5G organisation called Save Us Now. Steele told the crowd
of his concerns about the harmful effects of 5G radiation, particularly
on young people. In 1994, Steele was sentenced to eight years in prison
for accidentally shooting a 19-year-old woman in the head, leaving her
disabled, when he drunkenly fired shots from a pistol outside a pub in
Newcastle.
I moved closer to the stage, feeling I stuck out. I was
the only person wearing a mask. I ended up close to one of the plinths
supporting the great bronze Landseer lions at the base of Nelson’s
column. The stage stood between two of the lions and a group of people
had climbed onto the plinth for a better view. A couple of dozen police,
wearing surgical masks but no riot gear, stood a few yards from the
edge of the crowd. A group of them moved towards us and began to nudge
their way towards the stage. Could they be planning to shut the demo
down, I wondered? They were heavily outnumbered. From the plinth, a
middle-aged man with a Mohican and a T-shirt that made a reference to
sex with sheep, wearing a coat tied across his chest like a Highlander’s
plaid, raised his fist and began leading the crowd in a chant of ‘Shame
on you!’ The police stopped. A candyfloss plume of white hair appeared
and began to move past them. The crowd’s anger turned to joy. ‘David!’
came the cries. ‘David, we love you!’ The police hadn’t been getting
ready to shut the demo down. They had been forming a cordon to ensure
the safe delivery to the stage of David Icke.
Later,
I emailed Dominic, a conspiracist acquaintance, to tell him I’d been at
the rally. Although he knew I thought he was wrong about almost
everything relating to Covid-19, he was pleased to hear I’d been in
Trafalgar Square. ‘It is awesome to hear you went to the rally last
week, you’ve just made me very happy!’ he wrote back. ‘So what did you
think of the rally and David Icke’s speech? I regard it as a historic
speech that equals many others from the past. What he says in it does
actually answer a lot of the questions you have asked in your previous
email.’
Icke’s speech fell far short of historic. He dwelled on
his own prophetic powers and in the only memorable segment mocked the
‘fascism’ of the present moment:
Fascism justified by
the illusion pandemic of Covid-19. A virus, I must give it credit, that
is so well equipped for every eventuality. ‘You must not go nearer than
six feet to another person to protect you from the virus.’ So now it’s
got a bloody tape measure! [Applause.] ‘You must not stay with anyone
outside your bubble for more than 15 minutes.’ Now it’s got a bloody
watch! [Laughter.] ‘We are going to make masks mandatory but
not until the end of next week.’ Now it’s got a bloody calendar!
[Laughter and cheers.] Why can anyone with half a brain cell ... see that it’s a nonsense? Because they are making it up!
I
knew I might scare Dominic off if I pointed out the weaknesses of
Icke’s rhetoric, even if I didn’t mention antisemitism or shape-shifting
lizards. But I didn’t want to patronise him by pretending to give his
conspiracy theories credence. After all, he was pretty rude about people
who accept the reality of Covid-19. I wrote back to him about the
difference between safe distances and sell-by dates, and how needing to
be a safe distance from an explosive charge doesn’t mean the charge has a
measuring tape, and having to eat chicken by a certain day to avoid
illness doesn’t mean the chicken has a timer. I asked him if he fancied a
coffee. I haven’t heard from him since.
Earlier this year the young German journalist Alexander Eydlin wrote an article for Die Zeit
about how he became a conspiracy theorist, and how he stopped being
one. The latest survey by the Friedrich Ebert Foundation suggests that
in Germany, as in Britain, as in the US, about half the
population tends to the view that malign secret organisations are
directing events. Eydlin, who describes himself as ‘a politically
left-leaning secular Jew from the upper middle class with educated
parents and a healthy social network’, said he had been looking for
something to believe in, and was enchanted by the explicatory beauty and
alternative value system outlined by his conspiracist friends. ‘Before
the Enlightenment, evil was clearly located,’ he writes. ‘In the form of
the devil, the satanic, it took on an understandable form and could be
fought. Now we suspect that we cannot know what evil is or whether it
even exists. Not everyone can bear the idea of a life that cannot be
defined as unilaterally good or even just.’
Eydlin counsels
against treating conspiracy theorists as political extremists: that will
only make them see the concept of extremism itself as another of the
lies told by the evil conspirators. Nor is there any point in trying to
tear down their ideas with factual arguments, because the belief system
being attacked is also an identity. ‘In the end,’ Eydlin writes, ‘I
wasn’t convinced by the stubborn arguments of people who wanted to prove
to me that I was wrong. Instead it was the lasting friendships with
people who didn’t share my strange ideas and yet saw me as something
more than just a nutcase. They argued with me, but only after they had
taken the time to understand my crude ideas.’
I first met Dominic
on Rye Common in Peckham, this summer. I was lounging on the grass with
my family when a young man dressed neatly in jeans and a shirt, with a
round, pleasant face and sleepy eyes, came up to us with a stack of
leaflets. ‘Would you like to read something I’ve written?’ he asked,
putting one of them into my hand, and walked off. The way he said it
made me think he was handing out poetry, but when I looked at the piece
of paper – four pages printed on both sides of a single sheet of A5 – I
saw it was a conspiracist tract. ‘Think For Yourself ... Question “authority”’ it was headed, in red letters. On the first page was a cartoon labelled ‘LOCKDOWN’,
showing Boris Johnson in a white coat, holding a syringe, standing over
two masked policemen wrestling to the ground a dreadlocked protestor
who’d been holding a placard reading ‘GOVERNMENT LIES’.
I
skimmed the contents of the leaflet. It seemed a combination of
falsehoods, misunderstandings, exaggerations and out of context snippets
supporting the evil plan theory of events, all culled without
attribution from the internet. I can’t remember exactly what triggered
me. Was it the comparative table of deaths in different countries
accompanied by the phrase ‘the media will never show you a comparison
like this,’ when there can hardly be a news website, newspaper, magazine
or TV news show in the world that hasn’t published
multiple versions? Was it the notion that a pandemic preparedness
exercise run in the US before the pandemic began was
evidence that Covid-19 was planned by the evil elite, even though the
organisers had issued press releases about it? Or was it that Dominic
had gone to the trouble to make the misinformation pouring in from the
internet seem more real by getting it printed up and hand-delivering it
to us in the park, where we’d come to enjoy the simple, uncontested
truth of sunshine on grass? Or was it that a close old friend had
recently revealed to me his conspiracist view of the virus?
I
somehow felt I had to intervene, not to change Dominic’s mind or to stop
him handing out the leaflets, but simply to make him register that
there was resistance to the falsehoods he was spreading. I went over to
him – he was handing out his material to a large group of young people
sitting on the grass – and told him off. I wasn’t eloquent. I said his
leaflets were full of rubbish, and that he should destroy them. He said I
should destroy my mask (nobody there was wearing one). I walked away.
It was the kind of futile encounter between the self-appointed
rationalist and the self-declared bearer of esoteric truths that happens
online all the time, and it was no more satisfactory in the flesh. As
soon as I opened my mouth I realised it was pointless to pick out this
untruth or that misunderstanding in his leaflet. To treat it as amenable
to critique was a category error, like scolding Ayn Rand for bad
dialogue or calling out Trump for being unpresidential. I was reminded
of one of the reasons it’s so difficult to argue with conspiracy
theorists: you’re faced with a choice between challenging limitless
errors one by one, or denouncing an entire edifice of belief, which
usually means calling the conspiracy theorist mad or stupid, at which
point conspiracy theory has won. It’s like a forest fire that can only
be put out one square inch at a time, or all at once, and so can never
be put out.
I read Dominic’s leaflet a little more carefully. It
seemed even more fantastical than before, but my visceral indignation
had faded. In the Trump-Brexit era the time between hearing of some new
shame and accepting it has shortened. It used to take me days to work
through the Kübler-Ross model over each small death of truth and honour
in the public square, but I’ve got it down to half an hour now. When we
bumped into Dominic by the lake I apologised for losing my temper. I
told him I was thinking of writing an article about people who thought
as he did. He was wary. I got his first name and an email address linked
to an account on a website, lbry.tv, that he calls ‘my channel’, a
collection of bootleg conspiracist books and videos with titles like
‘Your Government Wants You Dead’ and ‘The Real Science of Germs – Do
Viruses Cause Disease?’ I remember naively suggesting that he read some
books instead of spending so much time on the internet. What books was I
thinking of? Maybe Icke’s Children of the Matrix: How an Interdimensional Race Has Controlled the Planet for Thousands of Years – And Still Does? Or the anonymously authored QAnon: An Invitation to the Great Awakening. Free delivery with Amazon Prime.
Dominic,
who I guess is in his late twenties, once read better books. In our
email exchanges he told me he had a degree in psychology and a social
work diploma. He never told me whether he had a day job. He dated the
origin of his current state of mind to his late teens and early twenties
when he had been troubled by the world’s problems and looked for their
root causes. He took out a subscription to New Internationalist.
He read Noam Chomsky, John Pilger, Greg Palast. ‘It slowly dawned on
me,’ he wrote, ‘that there could be a hidden hand behind seemingly
random, unconnected events. I came to this realisation myself, long
before hearing of the term “conspiracy theory” or “new world order”
etc.’ He read George Monbiot and Mark Curtis and took away the lesson
that whoever is in power in the US and Britain carries out the same policies.
Cooper’s Behold a Pale Horse
was his gateway to another world. To me – and I would have imagined
before this to anyone – the works of radical social critics like Chomsky
and Monbiot, eloquent, internationalist, hallowing the communal, have
nothing in common with Cooper’s jittery libertarian screed, reeking of
cordite and the Bible, infused with nationalist ideals of American
individualism, packed with descriptions of UFOs and giving a detailed
history of America’s secret dealings with alien races. And yet, to
Dominic, it was ‘the missing piece of the puzzle’, introducing him to
echt conspiracy totems like the New World Order, the Illuminati and the
Freemasons. He was particularly taken with the chapter titled ‘Silent
Weapons for Quiet Wars’. Cooper, who went on the lam to dodge tax and
died in 2001 in a shoot-out with sheriff’s deputies in Apache County,
Arizona, presents this as a secret Bilderberg Group policy document from
1954, outlining how the US was to be a test bed for the
elite’s discovery that societies could be run like electrical networks.
‘It all made logical sense,’ Dominic wrote. ‘If you are the few and you
want to control the many, you would need to form secret networks that
are able to funnel down into society the agendas you formulate, which
will then allow the gaining of greater power and control.’
This echoed a passage in Cooper’s book:
I
cannot and will not accept the theory that long sequences of unrelated
accidents determine world events. It is inconceivable that those with
power and wealth would not band together with a common bond, a common
interest, and a long-range plan to decide and direct the future of the
world. For those with the resources, to do otherwise would be totally
irresponsible. I know that I would be the first to organise a conspiracy
to control the outcome of the future if I were such a person and a
conspiracy did not yet exist.
The seer of
conspiracies, in other words, identifies with the imaginary conspirator.
The goals of the secret enslavement programme are crude because they
reflect the limited imagination, and life experience, of the
conspiracist. This goes against Eydlin’s claim that conspiracy
theorists’ willingness to integrate contradictions disproves the notion
that they’re trying to find easy explanations for complex events. ‘The
contortions that many conspiracy theorists must accept in order to
integrate events into their image of the world do not attest to a desire
for simple explanations,’ he writes. But is this true? Conspiracists
describe epiphanies where they start to see the big picture, the
universal meta-conspiracy that explains and links everything. But the
picture isn’t big. It’s small. It’s the result of an effort to shrink
the answer to every mystery until it can fit whatever doll’s house
furniture version of that answer the conspiracist is capable of holding
in their head.
Maybe it’s better to see conspiracy theories as
lots of small things, a box of McNuggets of folksy pseudo-information.
The cure for any flaw in a conspiracy theory is to add to it. Conspiracy
theories rely on sheer quantity, on feeding a limitless dole of small
stimulations to whatever part of the brain hungers for secret knowledge.
The appetite is never satisfied, but the plate is always full. The
phrase Cooper uses to describe the conspirators’ silent weapon – ‘it
shoots situations, instead of bullets’ – nicely describes conspiracist
discourse, including his own. The decisive medium that feeds conspiracy
theories is the shared online video clip or streamcast. Now more than
ever, when mainstream broadcasters are working from home, the sprawling
world of conspiracist TV is presentationally hard to distinguish from conventional TV.
The archetypal conspiracist clip is more than an hour long and has an
interviewer with a cheerful, reasonable-sounding manner who invites one
of those with privileged access to the truth, such as David Icke, to
hold forth as if he were the guest on a fawning version of a Sunday
morning current affairs show.
The Icke
style of conspiracist discourse is never lost for words or answers. It
is mimicked by foot soldiers like Martin, whom I met in Trafalgar
Square. Like Dominic, Martin didn’t match the cliché of conspiracy
theorists as unkempt eccentrics, hippies, stoners, ragged and unbarbered
and decked with badges. He was a graphic designer from Swindon, he had a
degree, he was neatly and conventionally dressed; he’d recently lost
his job when the pandemic forced his main client, P&O Cruises, to
tie up its fleet. We spoke for about forty minutes. I peppered him with
questions, but he never hesitated, acknowledged a non sequitur or
expressed the slightest doubt that he saw the truth. Calmly, with a tone
of stubborn and righteous annoyance such as an Englishman might use to
complain about a neighbour’s plans for a new conservatory, he led me on.
The New World Order planned to reduce the world population to 500
million slaves; the BBC reported the collapse of Building 7
of the World Trade Centre on 9/11 before it happened; the police
helicopter overhead was an obvious tactic by the conspirators to drown
out the rally speakers; Prescott Bush created communism and financed
Nazism; apparent Covid deaths in China and Iran were organised attacks;
Covid vaccines would sterilise recipients and implant tracking devices;
soon everyone would be forced to have a chip implanted in their hand;
the conspirators simultaneously wanted to keep their plans secret and
let everyone know about them; central banks needed to be destroyed
because they were creating money for themselves; the elite bloodlines of
the Rothschilds and Rockefellers and a few others adopted Jewish
personas so they couldn’t be criticised without their detractors being
accused of antisemitism; these elite bloodlines were psychotic,
psychopathic and Satan-worshipping; they went back to Babylon; it was
all in scripture, not that he was religious, because all religions were
run by the Synagogue of Satan; the conspirators want people to be
left-wing because left-wing people liked controlling governments; the
gender signs on the traffic lights at Trafalgar Square showed the hand
of the Illuminati at work, as did mass immigration.
I apologised for taking up so much of his time.
Conspiracist
discourse is an endless tease, always promising a new layer of
revelation, or a new angle. The allure doesn’t only work on those who
take the conspiracy theory seriously. The sceptic gets a twisted kick
out of it: the sense of wonder as each pearl drops from the master
conspiracist’s mouth that there are people who believe it. The thing is,
it works; it has always worked, even before the internet came along to
turn conspiracism into something awfully like an epidemic in its own
right. When you watch the full interview with Icke on Wogan in
1991, sure, the audience laughs, when Wogan cues them. But in between
there are long stretches of absolute silence in the studio as Icke
weaves his fabulations, the camera locked on his face. No doubt many
thought it comic, and others cruel, but there must have been many people
convinced by the performance, by this man who knew the absolute Answer
and was going to spend the rest of his life being five seconds away from
giving it out.
Karl Popper coined the phrase ‘conspiracy theory’ in 1952, in his book The Open Society and Its Enemies.
He framed it as something that would always be singular, like game
theory or chaos theory: it was only later that people started talking
about ‘conspiracy theories’. The change shifted the concept in the
conspiracists’ favour. To speak of conspiracy theories in the plural
anchors them in the concrete, even if the person speaking thinks they’re
nonsense: they’re still theories about a particular thing. Popper’s
notion of conspiracy theory referred to a personal predisposition that
could attach itself to anything, precisely because it was nested in the
holder’s brain.
Popper saw conspiracy theory as something very
old, connected to the religious impulse. ‘The belief in the Homeric gods
whose conspiracies explain the history of the Trojan War is gone,’ he
writes. ‘The gods are abandoned. But their place is filled by powerful
men or groups – sinister pressure groups whose wickedness is responsible
for all the evils we suffer from – such as the Learned Elders of Zion,
or the monopolists, or the capitalists, or the imperialists.’ At the
same time he made clear that he wasn’t denying the existence of actual
conspiracies:
On the contrary, they are typical social
phenomena. They become important, for example, whenever people who
believe in the conspiracy theory get into power. And people who
sincerely believe that they know how to make heaven on earth are most
likely to adopt the conspiracy theory, and to get involved in a
counter-conspiracy against non-existing conspirators. For the only
explanation of their failure to produce their heaven is the evil
intention of the Devil, who has a vested interest in hell.
To
some this will sound like what Trump is doing now, leading a more or
less open Republican conspiracy to hamper the Democrat vote in November,
using as his excuse a baseless conspiracy theory about ‘vote rigging’.
The darker example is the rise of the Nazis, a movement that transmitted
its conspiracism to the majority of the German population, then carried
through the most hideous and complex real conspiracy in history, the
murder of millions of Jews.
Conspiracy theory fixes on diverse
manifestations of injustice, technology and strife, on anything that’s
hard to explain. That’s not to say it doesn’t have a dominant key. The
othering of ethnicities or particular groups and accusations of Satanism
or child abuse are frequent markers of conspiracies, but they all have
in common an anarchic, nihilistic libertarianism that takes government
as its ultimate enemy – specifically the kind of social democratic or
socialist government that shifts resources from the wealthiest to the
less well off, that offers a trade-off between curtailments of personal
freedom for the rich and greater equality. This might seem implausible,
given how central the idea of a gang of super-rich families is to
conspiracy theory. But only a few families are included; conspiracy
theory tends to pass over the wealthy as a class. It’s striking that the
two billionaires most often accused of being the chief New World Order
Satanists – George Soros and Bill Gates – are the ones who have, if at
times ham-fistedly, given away the largest chunks of their fortunes to
worthy causes, one in support of the principle of democracy, the other
in support of better health for the poorest. Gates is targeted because
of the vast sums he gives to the World Health Organisation and for
vaccine research, rather than for what one might assume
enslavement-fearing conspiracy theorists would attack him for, the fact
that the firm he used to run provides the software for most of their
computers. It’s as if, to the conspiracists, Bill Gates of Microsoft is a
perfectly respectable American tycoon and his philanthropic self a
wicked alter ego. The grandest and most lasting conspiracy theories have
swirled around great levelling projects: the French Revolution was a
Masonic conspiracy, the Russian Revolution was a Jewish conspiracy, the WHO is a Chinese conspiracy, the British Labour Party and trade unions are a communist conspiracy, the EU is an anti-British conspiracy.
This
isn’t a conspiracy theory about the origin of conspiracy theories. It’s
an observation that the interests of conspiracy theorists and the
interests of the selfish end of the plutocracy have a way of aligning.
Both are cynical and mistrustful of institutions of authority, the
courts, the media, the government, legislatures: the conspiracists
because they think such bodies are malign agents of a secret elite, the
plutocrats because they place limits on their wealth and power.
Trump
was not the first conspiracy theorist to come to power. Orbán has been
the leader of Hungary since 2010; Erdoğan became prime minister of
Turkey in 2003. Trump’s election was unusual not just because the
American establishment saw itself as immune to capture by a conspiracy
theorist, but because he embodies in one person the two poles of
hostility to liberal democratic institutions: the plutocrat who hates
taxes, regulations and impertinent journalists, and the conspiracy
theorist with paranoid delusions about a deep state plot against the
people. Perhaps it was inevitable that he would become a character in a
phenomenon like QAnon.
Some have described QAnon as more like a
religion than a conspiracy theory, and it does stand out from the others
in that it imagines two duelling conspiracies – an evil conspiracy,
with Hillary Clinton, Hollywood celebs and a pack of evil Democrats
running a gigantic operation to kidnap hundreds of thousands of
children, keep them prisoner in underground tunnels, torture them, rape
them, drink their blood and use them in satanic rituals; and a good
conspiracy, led by Trump and a team of loyal heroes in the US
military, whose members are preparing to burst out, break up the
paedophile Satanist ring and save the children. In QAnon, Trump is
portrayed as a cross between Jack Ryan, the tough, smart, patriotic
family man played by Harrison Ford in the movies based on the Tom Clancy
novels, and the archangel Michael.
There’s a danger that in writing about QAnon – a social phenomenon not just in the US
but in Britain, Germany and many other countries, and endorsed by a
number of Republican candidates – you make it sound more interesting and
mysterious than it is. It is interesting, but in the way hitting
yourself in the face with a hammer is interesting: novel, painful and
incredibly stupid. It began in October 2017 as a series of posts on
4Chan, a bulletin board where lonely young men competed to amuse one
another with sniggering memes, racist jokes and outré porn, in which an
anonymous person or persons, signing themselves as Q, predicted the
imminent arrest of Hillary Clinton. Since then, Q has posted almost five
thousand times, reassuring followers of his/their identity by using a
series of codes that only Q has the password to generate. Q has shifted
from 4Chan to another bulletin board, 8chan, which later rebranded as
8kun, each incarnation more sniggering, racist and porny than the last
(8chan was also used by the white supremacist terrorists responsible for
killings in Christchurch, El Paso and Poway to post their hate
manifestos).
Although Q watchers have noted changes of style over
time, the basic elements of the conspiracist fantasy have stayed the
same. A network of evil child-trafficking Satanists controls most of the
country’s institutions, including the CIA and the FBI,
but is strongest in the Democratic Party and Hollywood. Hillary Clinton
and Barack Obama – usually referred to as ‘Hussein’ – are among the
ringleaders. Concealing his true mission by disguising himself as an
ordinary president of the United States, Trump is preparing to take them
on. Most of the information given by Q comes in the form of cryptic
hints, acronyms, code words and questions which followers are expected
to interpret.
Although Q’s impact depends on followers believing
that the posts come from a source at the heart of the American defence
establishment, it seems unlikely that they would have found an audience
without help. Obscure, dull, posted on websites with byzantine
interfaces and repulsive content, they would have languished had it not
been for two 4Chan moderators, Paul Furber and Coleman Rogers, who
persuaded a struggling YouTuber called Tracy Diaz to start making videos
interpreting and embroidering the posts. The videos were a hit. As
outlined in a 2018 investigation by NBC News, which
suggested that Diaz and Rogers themselves may be Q, the QAnon movement
spread when people who would never have gone near 4Chan began dissecting
and arguing over each post, first on YouTube and Reddit, then on
Facebook. Sites sprang up to relay the posts in accessible formats. A
hierarchy of ‘researchers’, sometimes called ‘bakers’, developed, from
the obsessive to the casual, adding layer on layer of confabulation onto
Q’s original inventions. Websites and internet entrepreneurs discovered
they could increase traffic and make money by tapping into the interest
in QAnon. Faded Instagram influencers and obscure wellness gurus found
new audiences by pushing hard on the child abuse angle; when Jeffrey
Epstein was arrested, then died, and Prince Andrew failed to account for
his friendship with him, it was QAnon gold. In effect crowdsourced, the
QAnon narrative broke free of Q’s plodding cryptograms, which still
look to Trump to mount a military coup against the government he leads,
and moved towards its dominant present form: an infinitely branching
Satanist-paedophile plot, a preview of a future dystopia in which anyone
may be accused on Facebook of the most ghastly crimes with all the due
process of a medieval witch trial.
Opposing pandemic-justified
social control doesn’t make you a conspiracy theorist, but among the
anti-lockdown, anti-mask movement outside the US, signs of QAnon are ubiquitous. One of the prominent faces of Covid scepticism in the UK, Louise Hampton, presents herself in videos as an NHS
call centre worker who found she was fielding calls from people in
medical distress because they were terrified of going to hospital, but
not from people with symptoms of Covid-19. This does not explain why her
posts are tagged with the QAnon acronym #WWG1WGA,
referring to the movement’s Three Musketeers-style slogan: ‘Where We Go
One, We Go All.’ The charity Save the Children has been struggling to
disassociate itself from another ubiquitous QAnon tag: #SaveTheChildren.
At the rally I attended someone put their protest signs in the window
of the Trafalgar Square branch of Pret A Manger. ‘Save Our Children –
Stop Fucking Our Kids!!’ one sign read. Another: ‘#Revolution
#GreatAwakening If dogs get put down for harming kids then so should NONCES!’
What, I wondered, did this have to do with the British government’s
response to Covid-19? In the political arena of 2020, the concept of
demonising your opponents has become literal.
There have been efforts to portray QAnon followers as directly dangerous: one article in the Financial Times
warned that ‘QAnon has the makings of America’s al-Qaida.’ Few
Q-adjacent conspiracists have gone as far as Edgar Welch, a North
Carolinan who in 2016 marched into a pizza parlour in Washington DC
with three loaded guns, intending to rescue the children he believed,
under the influence of a QAnon precursor known as Pizzagate, were being
kept prisoner there. But Q isn’t urging people to take direct action. He
tells his followers – he refers to them as ‘patriots’ – to sit back,
not worry, and enjoy the spectacle of Trump’s plan unfolding. ‘Get the
popcorn, Friday and Sunday will deliver,’ he said in 2017 when making
one abortive prediction. ‘Trust the plan. Step back,’ he told an
impatient supporter in 2018. Q has told followers to ‘trust the plan’ 27
times – a plan they have no role in carrying out.
The danger of
conspiracy theories is not that they promote action to tear down society
but that they delegitimise, distract and divert: they divert large
numbers of people from engaging in political action, leaving the field
clear for the cynical, the greedy and the violently intolerant. They
distract them from questioning authority about society’s real problems
by promoting a gory soap opera as if it were real and the result of
‘research’. And they delegitimise the idea that institutions – courts,
parliaments, the education system, the salaried media – can be anything
other than malign.
To talk to conspiracy theorists like Dominic
and Martin is to find yourself pitied as a credulous centrist, relegated
to the world of ‘No, but ...’ ‘Do you think kidnapping, raping and murdering children and drinking their blood is OK?’ ‘No, but ...’
‘Do you like the increasing control faceless corporations,
unaccountable billionaires and remote authorities have over our lives?’
‘No, but ...’ ‘Are you happy about the relentless spread of incomprehensible, intrusive technology?’ ‘No, but ...’
The Covid-19-is-fake movement is strongly opposed to Boris Johnson, who
might have hoped for more sympathy as the midwife of the conspiracist
project of Brexit. In their recent book about conspiracy, A Lot of People Are Saying,
Russell Muirhead and Nancy Rosenblum have a way of characterising
delegitimation – ‘The people associated with these institutions, it is
believed, no longer have standing to persuade or legislate, to reason or
coerce, to lay claim to our consent or at least compliance’ – which
made me think: ‘That’s exactly the way I feel about Boris Johnson right
now.’ But my scepticism doesn’t extend to complete cynicism about the
institutions themselves. ‘It doesn’t matter who you vote for, it never
did,’ Dominic writes in his leaflet. ‘Governments are criminal cartels
for interconnected global elites who’ve an agenda ... complete enslavement of humanity by a small group of psychopaths.’
In
a way the saddest aspect of the epidemic of conspiracism is not the
delusions about conspiracy but the delusions about what it is to learn.
As Muirhead and Rosenblum write, ‘knowledge does not demand certainty;
it demands doubt.’ How did it get to the point where a smart young man
like Dominic can believe in a binary, red pill-blue pill world of
epistemics, in which there are only two hermetically distinct streams of
knowledge to choose from, his preferred ‘truth’ and the other,
‘mainstream’, ‘official’ version, which all those who reject his truth
believe without question? Where they can warn of the dangers of
confirmation bias even as they practise it? These are questions that the
community of conspiracy theorists can’t answer by themselves.
from: https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v42/n20/james-meek/red-pill-blue-pill