Why we don’t let compassion get in the way of a good conspiracy theory

What are the chances? On the surface, it’s a fair question. On Monday, the Bayesian superyacht – on which the man once dubbed the ‘British Bill Gates’, tech multi-millionaire Mike Lynch, and his loved ones were celebrating the end of his US fraud trial – was sunk by a violent tornado in Sicily.

Just 48 hours earlier, his former business partner and co-defendant, Stephen Chamberlain, was fatally hit by a car while he went jogging in Cambridgeshire.

My first thought on hearing both pieces of news was how extraordinary and cruel the world can be. Two men, both cleared after a decade-long legal battle and who felt – as Lynch had put it, after a year under house arrest, away from his wife and two daughters – that they had a second chance at life. Now this.

There should be nothing remarkable about that reaction. But we no longer seem to live in an age of shock, sympathy or nuance. What else could explain the unsightly rush to brand this appalling human tragedy as a conspiracy? Or, as my social media feeds would have it: “Anyone else think this is totally suss?”

Deep breath. Firstly, it shouldn’t need saying that rescue teams in Italy are still searching for 59-year-old Lynch and his teenager daughter, Hannah, who are among the six passengers and crew as yet unaccounted for; at least one person has so far been confirmed dead. This isn’t the time for crass, misinformed speculation or lies. Does that really need spelling out?

Where once we did collective sympathy so well, with social media acting as a gathering place for heartfelt messages of condolence and #RIPs, human tragedy now seems to bring out the worst in us.

The whole thing has taken on the feel of a “I know something you don’t know” playground chant – an opportunity to become a self-appointed expert and “truth-teller” in an online culture that prizes breaking news and boastful “I was there first” narratives that care little for fact or common sense.

Even basic decency, given the number of people posting vile messages about the vanity of capitalists with superyachts, or tweeting about “karma”.

Are we so selfish and paranoid that we can no longer locate the appropriate emotion – sadness, sympathy, horror – within ourselves? Has our ready access to search engines over the last two decades reprogrammed us to constantly question things and seek the result that best suits our personal script? (Sorry, that sounded dangerously like a conspiracy theory, didn’t it…?)

Part of the problem, of course, is our ability to twist truths and manipulate images, sending them around the globe in seconds. Take the conspiracy theory, earlier this year, that Hawaiian wildfires were the work of futuristic energy weapons being secretly developed by the US military, a falsehood that spread with alarming speed on TikTok.

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That’s just one example among thousands. We need to start asking ourselves serious questions, like, what happens when we no longer believe anything? Or what happens when we believe too much? After all, Britain has seen the impact of such misinformation in the wake of the Southport killings and subsequent riots this summer, and how delicate the balance between sympathy following a tragedy and the desire for a motive, or someone to blame, has become.

Yes, on some level it’s probably more comforting to believe there are dark forces at work, rather than accept that such freak accidents, such as the Bayesian’s sinking, can and do occur – and that none of us, however rich or well-connected, is immune.

But coincidences happen; that’s the random and unfair truth of human existence, however tiny the chances might have been on paper. Just because something is mind-boggling and difficult to process, that doesn’t make it anything other than what it seems.