By Christine Rosen
Thursday, January 09, 2020
Last week, as news spread of the successful American
drone strike that killed Iranian general Qassem Soleimani, “WWIII” began
trending on social media.
It wasn’t just the Pavlovian conditioning of Twitter that
triggered such a dramatic response. “How close are we to World War III?” asked USA Today. In the Boston Globe, Yvonne Abraham was so distraught that she turned her
column into a letter to God, writing, “Things seem a bit End Times-y right now,
what with that almost-war against Iran and the Antipodean conflagration.” And
writing about the ongoing fires in Australia, New York Times columnist Paul Krugman declared, “Apocalypse is the
new normal.”
Everyday End Times rhetoric used to be relegated to the
fringes of doomsday preppers, fundamentalist religious sects, and cults. How
has apocalypticism gone mainstream?
It’s not only war; in recent years, countless situations
have been declared hallmarks of the End Times: climate change, technology
surveillance, the lack of affordable housing, eating meat, the death of the
mall, the decline in the number of insects worldwide, the state of journalism,
the rise of robots, and even the flattening of human consciousness itself. And,
of course, Donald Trump’s election to the presidency, just before which Hillary
Clinton infamously told The New York
Times, “I’m the last thing standing between you and the apocalypse.”
If everything is an apocalypse, then nothing is. But
despite the hyperbole, the rush to End Times thinking in recent years signals
broader cultural anxiety.
In the political sphere, apocalypse-mongering has
intensified as political polarization has increased, and it’s a game both sides
play (in a 2013 tweet, Trump himself suggested President Obama would spark
World War III). As Yuval Levin argued recently at The Dispatch, “This rush to apocalyptic rhetoric is both a cause
and an effect of the paralyzing polarization of our politics. It is a way to
sustain the partisan intensity and justify the outrageous levels of mutual
animosity required to keep all arguments at a fever pitch on cable news, on
social media, and on the campaign trail.”
Apocalyptic rhetoric prompts people to make snap
judgments based on tribal loyalties or fear rather than reasoned debate, which
in turn encourages politicians to respond with even more hyperbole in a kind of
rhetorical feedback loop. The result for the public isn’t clarity but
confusion. Consider a recent USA Today
poll about the Soleimani killing that found that although 42 percent of
Americans approved of the strike, 55 percent “believe the attack that took his
life has made the United States less safe, rejecting a fundamental argument the
Trump administration has made.” As well, “Just one in 10 said it had made the
U.S. ‘much more safe;’ three times as many said it had made the nation ‘much
less safe.’”
Moreover, pessimistic rhetoric takes its toll on voters’
perceptions of government and their hopes for the future of their country. A
Pew Research poll taken just before the last presidential election found that
75 percent of Trump supporters say “life for people like them has gotten
worse.” Another survey conducted by Pew in 2019 showed just how deep pessimism
about the country’s future had grown on both sides of the political aisle.
Apocalypticism has infected more than just our politics.
Apocalyptic themes have been a mainstay in popular culture for decades. As The Guardian noted recently, though, end
times scenarios among sci-fi movies set in the year 2020 project a particularly
grim future for humanity. As well, dystopian entertainments like Hulu’s “The
Handmaid’s Tale” have been embraced by activists in real life who sincerely
believe that they live in equally terrible times.
Celebrities have also embraced doomsday rhetoric. At the
recent Golden Globe awards, actress Patricia Arquette used her time at the
podium to fear-monger about war and “people not knowing if bombs are going to
drop on their kids’ heads” in a speech that Vox described, “warned of a world
on the brink of apocalypse.” (Earlier in the evening, Arquette chatted with
entertainment reporters about the whiskey and karaoke she indulged in before
the event and the “really fun night” she planned to have, so perhaps the
apocalypse wasn’t that imminent).
One reason apocalyptic rhetoric has increased in recent
years is that in an age of information overload, to make oneself heard above
the din, you have to shout. We used to talk about “crises” or “problems.”
Today, to gain attention for one’s cause, it must be hyped as an imminent
disaster or world-destroying force.
There is cultural myopia (or narcissism) at work as well.
We are used to a personalized, convenient, on-demand existence, where a swipe
or a tap of a device solves most problems, and we need not leave our homes to
do many things (like become keyboard-warrior political activists). The only way
to rouse people to get out and actually do
something is to declare your cause an existential one.
Technology and its many platforms accelerate both these
impulses by privileging content that prompts the most “engagement”—negative or
positive—from users by rewarding the sharing of it. Apocalyptic statements
quickly become mundane, as anyone who scrolls through Twitter can attest, but
also engaging to users when they reinforce existing beliefs.
Trafficking in doomsday scenarios and overheated rhetoric
gives people a sense of purpose and control in an age of anxiety. By embracing
the fight against existential threats, they believe they are taking on a cause
more important than themselves. Such efforts also offer a sheen of moral
righteousness to otherwise secular causes at a time of declining faith in
institutions, in our leaders, and, all too often, in each other. Maybe a zombie
apocalypse isn’t so terrifying after all.
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