Conspiracy theories: how abnormal are they?

Or, are we all down a rabbit-hole?

I assume that readers are familiar with this image. Here are three ways in which people have explained how this event occurred.

A: It was staged by the Trump campaign in order to boost him as a “fighter” and to discredit his enemies.

B: It was a failed assassination attempt organised by political and/or deep-state actors.

C: The shot was fired by a lone gunman who got within range due to poorly coordinated security.

I’ll let you choose.

I have my own opinion, but, without passing judgement, there are grounds for all three accounts.

A: The Trump campaign benefited from the event. The above image was described by some commentators at the time as an election-winner.

B: Trump’s opponents, on the other hand, see him not only as a threat at the election, but as a threat to the constitution itself. Someone must want rid of him.

C: The lone-actor theory is economical (Occam’s razor) and based on reported facts, but the shooter’s motives remain unclear.

Accounts A and B are much more likely than C to be described as “conspiracy theories”. That’s because C rests on an identified individual and on incompetent security, whereas A and B assume that people were acting in concert and in secret to change the course of history. Conspiracies do sometimes happen, but A and B have to presuppose a cover-up operation. Often mainstream media get accused of being complicit in the staging and/or the cover-up. Any further gaps can be filled with narrative that suits a pre-existing worldview.

Such worldviews come from left and right: let’s say, as examples, either a global communist plot to rob people of their freedoms, or a corporate neoliberal plot to extract wealth from the planet and from the poor. Again, there’s a factual basis for both. Communists really did want to foment an international revolutionary movement. Neoliberals really did want a globalised market based on free trade. Neither the communists nor the neoliberals were secretive about those objectives.

A conspiracy theory, however, is an account of events that goes well beyond attested facts and that draws implausible connections. It gives the believer a satisfying sense of “seeing behind the curtain”. And anyway, isn’t “plausibility” a subjective judgement?

Sometimes people are a little too ready to label an account of events as a conspiracy theory. The hypothesis that the Covid-19 virus may have been accidentally released from a virology laboratory “cannot entirely be ruled out”, according to a study published in 2022. By definition, a conspiracy is intentional, not accidental. The lab origin explanation can only be classified as a conspiracy theory when thought to be intentional, or “implicating powerful actors in a malevolent plot”, as another study put it.

Conspiracy theories – and hence conspiracy theorists – are often seen as abnormal. People who make these unusual or implausible connections may, according to a psychologist, have traits associated with schizotypy. What does that mean? “People with schizotypal personality disorder tend to hold odd beliefs and may find it hard to respond correctly to social cues”. But honestly, have you never in your life held an “odd belief”, at least for a while, or failed to respond “correctly” to a social cue?

Without denying that pathologising view, there’s a plausible alternative that all humans are conspiracy theorists and that such thinking is not abnormal. We try to mind-read others, we over-analyse their motives, and we imagine what they’ve been up to behind our backs. We build up opinions about what’s happened and why, often without checking the facts. Indeed, we’d rather not find out how one-sided or wrong we are, and we resist others who question our values and beliefs. Just read the comments section below any controversial news item.

A conspiracy theory arises from “normal” human biases, when applied to political actors and historical events. It’s not easy to give up on a cherished belief, even after stumbling upon the facts, reading a different account, or hearing from people in the know.

We’re all down a rabbit-hole of some kind. But we don’t like to admit it, so it’s easier to see it as a problem with other people. That, at least, is an alternative to the “nutjob” theory about conspiracy theorists. You don’t have to buy it. It could pay, however, to accept that there’s a conspiracy theorist in each of us before trying to dissuade others from apparently outlandish beliefs.

What looks like an implausible account of events to one person, may look plausible to another if it supports their pre-existing beliefs and expectations. Strong community support can, for example, normalise the most implausible of religious beliefs.

Many people do take their theories about political and historical events too far and too seriously, to a point that’s delusional and risks being harmful. But recent talk about “post-Truth politics” doesn’t ring true. When was the Golden Age of Truth politics, after which we declined into post-Truth? There never was such an age. But rulers and governments have always sought to establish ways and means for separating truth from falsehood, or from downright lies, not always with the best intentions. Inscriptions from sixth century BCE Persia, for example, show King Darius I condemning the Lie – “I am not a friend to the man who is a liar”. But he repeats the point with such force, carved literally into stone, that he must have been afraid that people would conspire against him.

“If Darius did not ‘lie’ as such, then he certainly championed the dissemination of an elaborate series of alternative facts … [But this was intended] to counter the truth that Darius was a usurper and a murderer”.*

How far is too far, then?

People can have differing versions of events, but there must be an outer limit of credibility, within which dialogue and debate make sense, but outside of which a theory needs to be ignored. Fidelity to the facts (such as election results) and attention to scientific evidence (about Covid-19 for instance) are undoubtedly important in political debates. They’re not conversation-stoppers, however. Facts and scientific studies inform us, but they don’t tell us what we ought to do. On their own, they don’t end the political argument. They do keep things grounded in reality at least.

Political leadership and decision-making have to take account of the diversity of needs, values and perceptions in large pluralistic societies. Our differences aren’t always reconcilable in rational ways, compromises have to be made, and no one’s government ever achieves a lasting harmony.

Progress isn’t a steady state.

One of the purposes of a democratic constitution was to allow for robust debate and to hear the voices of less powerful groups in society. Through their representatives, people could realise hopes for improved social conditions. No one promised it would be plain sailing though. People are biased in their own causes, so no one could promise all-round rationality. The over-rated Harvard professor John Rawls had to imagine a “veil of ignorance”, removing people from their own selves, in order to create an ideal situation in which they might behave rationally. The proposal doesn’t seem to have caught on.

An old – and far more practical – debate in political theory was about the relative merits of monarchies and republics. The former were seen as unified and decisive, the latter as pluralistic and argumentative. Machiavelli put a case in favour of republics, or entities of the people such as his native Florence. Although their internal arguments might take time, republics would achieve greater commitment from the people once decisions were made. This dilemma between unified will and freedom to disagree is still a live question. Are we willing to appreciate other people’s differing versions of events and their differing needs and values? If so, then how do we work with adversaries? Or are people impatient for a world of agreement and collaboration?

And who did shoot JFK anyway?

*Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Persians: the age of the great kings. Wildfire 2022, pp 105–6.