Not only is Donald Trump back in the White House, but the far right is poised to occupy the Austrian chancellorship for the first time in the country’s postwar history, and Germany is hurtling toward a fraught election next month, following the collapse of its “traffic light” coalition government. Is each of these countries unhappy in its way (to paraphrase Tolstoy), or is there a common denominator to their unhappiness?
While many commentators have settled on the idea of widespread “anti-incumbency” bias in recent political outcomes, this does not tell us why voters have turned against incumbents. One explanation, of course, is inflation. But another, largely underappreciated cause, is the fallout from the pandemic, which left many communities not only with a lingering sense of loss but also with unresolved conflicts and deep-seated distrust.
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In Austria, the far right has benefited massively from discontent over how the pandemic was managed. In Italy, 40per cent of those who voted for Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni’s Fratelli d’Italia (Brothers of Italy) in the last election thought the previous government’s decisions about vaccines amounted to “an undemocratic restriction on citizens’ freedom.” Trump, in his second inaugural address, elicited loud cheers from his audience when he made a point of mentioning that he would reinstate soldiers who had been discharged for disobeying vaccine mandates.
Libertarian resentment over past restrictions and mandates is one thing; an abiding distrust of scientists is quite another. The latter is bound to affect not just public health, but also climate policies and other highly politicized areas of science. Former US President Joe Biden was so fearful of scientists being persecuted by the incoming Trumpists – with their various “enemies lists” –that he preemptively pardoned the pandemic-era head of the US National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, Anthony Fauci, in the final hours of his presidency. (Trump still tried to please his base by removing Fauci’s federal security detail, even though he has faced regular death threats.)
Trump’s nominee to lead the National Institute of Health, Jay Bhattacharya, is most known for discounting the toll of the pandemic and arguing that the virus should be allowed to spread widely to build herd immunity. He has also been eager to link science funding to the level of academic freedom at universities, though it is unclear how he would make such assessments. Last fall, he agreed to speak at a “benefit dinner” hosted by the Heartland Institute, a powerhouse of climate denialism. Other speakers included the right-wing Brexiteer Nigel Farage and the pro-Russia, far-right Austrian politician Harald Vilimsky.
There is nothing wrong with being cautious about scientific findings. As Karl Popper and many other philosophers of science have argued, scientists should be open to having their hypotheses falsified; they should welcome questioning and revisions. The problem is that very few of us are in a position to assess scientific debate, let alone challenge the prevailing consensus (even if we have “done our research”). Nonetheless, in today’s information ecosystem, it is easier than ever to dismiss inconvenient facts by making vague references to what supposedly went wrong during the pandemic, or by trotting out conspiracy theories about cover-ups and scientists being illegitimately empowered to govern.
True, many disputes about the pandemic simply map onto existing political divisions. But this was not inevitable. Rather, it is the result of certain politicians treating the virus as yet another front in the culture war. Even within the far right, political trajectories varied. Whereas Trump and former Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro promoted libertarian policies and quack cures (such as injecting bleach), Viktor Orbán pursued a relatively restrictive approach.
What can be done? One option is to establish independent commissions to produce a proper historical record of how the pandemic was handled. Who made which decisions, and why? How much uncertainty were they facing, and how did they assess risks and trade-offs? In theory, there is already support for such an idea in many political quarters. None other than Peter Thiel, the venture capitalist and financier of far-right causes, recently called for a fact-finding initiative modelled on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in post-apartheid South Africa (where he partly grew up).
Of course, there is a danger that such commissions would immediately be perceived as partisan, especially in the eyes of those who already distrust scientists. This was certainly the case with the House Select Subcommittee on the coronavirus Pandemic, whose final report garnered little national attention. One potential remedy is a citizen assembly comprising a random selection of adults (like a trial jury). Outgoing German Chancellor Olaf Scholz – who has admitted that pandemic-era school closures probably went too far – recently welcomed such an approach.
Critics will counter that since “ordinary citizens” must first listen to experts, the selection of expert testimony will remain a source of contention for vaccine sceptics or people with a political axe to grind. But just allowing a public airing of different assessments (though not conspiracy theories) could have a cathartic effect. While a citizen assembly’s final report might not be accepted by all, it would at least establish an official record. Almost all commissions that similarly dealt with past dictatorships in Central Europe, Latin America, and elsewhere drew criticism; but few countries regret having established them.
At this point, any effort to mitigate the pandemic’s toxic political legacy is to be welcomed.
