When FB is used to ignite hatred
PAST the end of a remote mountain road, down a rutted dirt track, in a concrete house that lacked running water but bristled with smartphones, 13 members of an extended family were glued to Facebook. And they were furious.
A family member, a truck driver, had died after a beating the month before. It was a traffic dispute that turned violent, the authorities said. But on Facebook, rumours swirled that his assailants were part of a Muslim plot to wipe out the country’s Buddhist majority.
“We don’t want to look at it because it’s so painful,” HM Lal, a cousin of the victim, said as family members nodded. “But in our hearts there is a desire for revenge.”
The rumours, they believed, were true. Still, the Buddhist family did not join in when Sinhalese-language Facebook
groups, goaded on by extremists with wide followings on the platform, planned attacks on Muslims, burning a man to death. But they had shared and could recite the viral Facebook memes constructing an alternate reality of nefarious Muslim plots. Lal called them “the embers beneath the ashes” of Sinhalese anger.
For months, we had been tracking riots and lynchings around the world linked to misinformation and hate speech on Facebook, which pushes whatever content keeps users on the site longest – a potentially damaging practice in countries with weak institutions and histories of social instability.
Time and again, communal hatreds overrun the newsfeed unchecked as local media are displaced by Facebook and governments find themselves with little leverage over the firm. Some users, energised by hate speech and misinformation, plot real-world attacks.
A reconstruction of Sri Lanka’s descent into violence, based on interviews with officials, victims and ordinary users caught up in online anger, found that Facebook’s newsfeed played a central role in nearly every step from rumour to killing. Facebook officials, they say, ignored repeated warnings of the potential for violence, resisting pressure to hire moderators or establish emergency points of contact.
Facebook declined to respond in detail to questions about its role in Sri Lanka’s violence, but a spokeswoman said in an email that “we remove such content as soon as we’re made aware of it”. She said the company was “building up teams that deal with reported content” and investing in “technology and local language expertise to help us swiftly remove hate content”.
Sri Lankans say they see little evidence of change. And in other countries, as Facebook expands, analysts and activists worry they, too, may see violence.
East of Medamahanuwara lies the real Ampara, a small town of concrete buildings surrounded by open green fields. But the imagined Ampara, which exists in rumours on Sinhalese-speaking Facebook, is the shadowy epicentre of a Muslim plot to sterilise and destroy Sri Lanka’s Sinhalese majority.
As Tamil-speaking Muslims, the Atham-Lebbe brothers knew nothing of that version of Ampara when they opened a restaurant there. They had no way to anticipate that, on a warm evening in late February, the real and imagined Amparas would collide.
It began with a customer yelling in Sinhalese about something he had found in his dinner. Unable to understand Sinhalese, Farsith, the brother running the register, ignored him.
He did not know that the day before, a viral Facebook rumour claimed, falsely, that the police had seized 23,000 sterilisation pills from a Muslim pharmacist in Ampara. The irate customer drew a crowd, which gathered around Farsith, shouting: “You put in sterilisation medicine, didn’t you?”
He grasped only that they were asking about a lump of flour in the customer’s meal, and worried that saying the wrong thing might turn the crowd violent.
“I don’t know,” Farsith said in broken Sinhalese. “Yes, we put?”
The mob, hearing confirmation, beat him, destroyed the shop and set fire to the local mosque.
In an earlier time, this might have ended in Ampara. But Farsith’s “admission” had been recorded on a cellphone. Within hours, a popular Facebook group, the Buddhist Information Center, pushed out the 18-second video, presenting it as proof of long-rumoured Muslim plots. Then it spread.
In a small office lined with posters in Colombo, Sri Lanka’s capital, members of an advocacy group called the Center for Policy Alternatives watched as hate exploded on Facebook – all inspired by the video from Ampara, which had overtaken Sinhalese social media in just a week. One post declared, “Kill all Muslims, don’t even save an infant.” A prominent extremist urged his followers to descend on the city of Kandy to “reap without leaving an iota behind”.
Desperate, the researchers flagged the video and subsequent posts using Facebook’s on-site reporting tool.
Though they and government officials had repeatedly asked Facebook to establish direct lines, the company had insisted this tool would be sufficient, they said. But nearly every report got the same response: The content did not violate Facebook’s standards.
“You report to Facebook, they do nothing,” one of the researchers, Amalini De Sayrah, said. “There’s incitements to violence against entire communities and Facebook says it doesn’t violate community standards.”
In government offices across town, officials “felt a sense of helplessness”, Sudarshana Gunawardana, the head of public information, recounted.
Before Facebook, he said, officials facing communal violence “could ask media heads to be sensible, they could have their own media strategy”. But now it was as if his country’s information policies were set at Facebook headquarters in Menlo Park, California.
Gunawardana, the public information head, said with Facebook unresponsive, he used the platform’s reporting tool. He, too, found nothing happened.
“There needs to be some kind of engagement with countries like Sri Lanka by big companies who look at us only as markets,” he said. “We’re a society, we’re not just a market.”
As anger over the Ampara video spread online, extremists like Amith Weerasinghe, a Sinhalese nationalist with thousands of followers on Face- book, found opportunity. He posted repeatedly about the beating of the truck driver, MG Kumarasinghe, portraying it as proof of the Muslim threat.
When Kumarasinghe died on March 3, online emotions surged into calls for action: attend the funeral to show support. Sinhalese arrived by the busload, fanning out to nearby towns. Online, they migrated from Facebook to private WhatsApp groups, where they could plan in secret.
On Facebook, Weerasinghe posted a video that showed him walking the shops of a town called Digana, warning that too many were owned by Muslims, urging Sinhalese to take the town back. The researchers in Colombo reported his video to Facebook, along with his earlier posts, but all remained online.
Over the next three days, mobs descended on towns, burning mosques, Muslim-owned shops and homes. One of those towns was Digana.
In response, the government temporarily blocked most social media. Only then did Facebook representatives get in touch with Sri Lankan officials, they say. Weerasinghe’s page was closed the same day.
A week after the violence, Shivnath Thukral, Facebook’s public policy director for South Asia, and two of his colleagues flew to Colombo, for a meeting with a group of government aides.
Thukral was conciliatory, acknowledging that Facebook had failed to address hate-speech and promising better collaboration. In a call with civic leaders, he conceded that Facebook did not have enough Sinhalese moderators, pledging to hire more.
Still, government officials said, they face the same problem as before. Facebook wields enormous influence over their society, but they have little over Facebook.