Why is the media so easily taken in by stories about North Korea?

It now appears that the story about Kim Jong-Un's uncle being executed by a pack of 120 ravenous dogs can be traced back to a Weibo post by a Chinese satirist.

As far as I've been able to discover, North Korea's baby-faced dictator Kim Jong Un has not actually denied feeding his uncle to a pack of 120 ravenous dogs, as was widely reported in the English-language media at the end of last week (such as this report from the Independent).

The state's offical news agency has had more pressing matters on its time than refuting the extravagant claim – reminiscent of something between a Bond villain and one of the more debauched Roman emperors – that Little Kim sat calmly along with his retinue for a whole hour while the hounds finished off Jang Song Thaek and five of his "accomplices". Instead, it has shown us pictures of the beloved leader admiring a new ski-lift and brought the world news of a grand ceremony in Pyongyang during which North Korean fisherman were congratulated for being "frontline soldiers defending socialism" who had "successfully materialised the intention of the supreme commander to supply abundant quantities of fishes". At this commendation, incidentally, the fishermen were said to have been "overwhelmed with tears of great emotion and joy". As for Kim himself, he's now looking forward to celebrating his birthday watching a basketball match organised by his close and admiring friend Dennis Rodman.

Despite the lack of a denial, most media outlets reporting the lurid details of Uncle Jang's execution did so with at least a show of scepticism, noting for example that the claims were first reported last month by a Hong Kong newspaper noted for its closeness to Beijing, not to mention the fact that death by dogs sounded a little extreme even for a regime renowned for an imaginative approach to execution. But there seemed little reason to dismiss it out of hand. Earlier accounts describing how Kim had members of a pop group (including a former girlfriend) executed by machine gun fire, or a former defence minister Kim Chol blown up by mortar round, have met with general acceptance. And the information that Jang's fate was a procedure known as "Quan Jue" offered an element of verisimilitude.  The newsworthiness of the story was not in doubt. As the old Korean journalists' maxim might well it, "Man eats dog is not a story; dog eats man is."

One Korean expert, Aidan Foster-Carter of Leeds University, was prepared to conceed that "it might be true", if only because similar treatment had been meted out to an effigy of the South Korean president, though he thought it on balance unlikely. The independent website NK News quoted Dr Leonid Petrov of the Australia National University in Canberra as being more convinced, commenting that it "sounds credible, particularly given the horror stories coming out of North Korean labor camps where dogs are fed by political prisoners". (I think that means that dogs are fed by the corpses of political prisoners.)

In the absence of a source for the story, official or otherwise, there was no definitive reason to believe or disbelieve it. Instead attention has focused on what the emergence of the story, in a Beijing-friendly Hong Kong newspaper, suggests about deteriorating relationship between China and its wayward (and increasingly embarrassing) client state. But the truth has now been revealed, thanks to the detective work of Trevor Powell. Powell has traced the original story to a post on the Chinese equivalent of Twitter, Tencent Weibo, dated 11 December and attributed to a satirist going by the name of Pyongyang Choi Seongho. In a further complication, it appears that the person responsible for the posting was not even the well-known satirist but rather "a copycat account mooching off his good name", making the story not just a spoof, but a hoax spoof. 

When the Hong Kong newspaper Wen Weipo – a tabloid whose credibility has been questioned by several critics of the Jang execution story – reported the spoof item, it quoted Pyongyang Choi Seongho as the source and reproduced the "Tweet" in full. This should have been enough to alert readers to the satirical nature of the claims. Nevertheless, the story was repeated on Christmas Eve, with apparent seriousness, by the English-language Singapore Straits Times, from where, after a week's delay, it exploded onto the international media. 

Powell thinks it amusing that musing that "given our faith in modern global news media to get to the bottom of a story, no one has actually gone back to the Wen Weipo article and caught this". He blames the "linguistic wall" that separated the original Hong Kong report and the Singporean version, while wondering at the apparent inability of the international media to find a Chinese speaker to read the original report.  No doubt this is true. It must also be the case, though, that the story was so good in the telling, both in its goryness and in the way it chimed with the idea of a crazed autocrat restrained by no legal or moral scruple, that parts of the media preferred not to inquire too closely lest it turned to dust in the sunlight. Kim Jong Un's penchant for whimsical methods of execution has become part of his public image, like Jean-Bédel Bokassa's alleged cannibalism or Catherine the Great's supposed love of horses.

Given the unlikelihood of an anyonymous sock-puppet account based in China having access to details of North Korean events unknown to the rest of the world, it can now safely be said that Jang Song Thaek was not in fact fed to 120 starving dogs. But questions remain. Such as why hasn't North Korea taken the trouble to deny the story? 

The secretiveness with which the regime surrounds itself isn't a sufficient explanation. Jang was stripped of power and dispatched in an unusually public fashion. Indeed it was widely noted at the time that Kim was deliberately using the purge, which might be seen as evidence of splits at the top of the regime, to cement his reputation for ruthlessness. His youth and relative inexperience would seem to demand acts designed to impress both the North Korean elite and the wider world that despite his somewhat comical appearance he means business. 

Which suggests to me that, lurid and fallacious as it was, the story of Kim Jong Un sitting down to watch his uncle being stripped naked and torn apart by wild dogs may not be a million miles removed from the hereditary dictator's own preferred self-image. As Gaius Caligula, another youthful ruler around whom collected exaggerated legends of cruel depravity, is reported to have said, "Let them hate me, so long as they fear me" (oderint dum metuant). Like Kim, Caligula elevated craziness into an instrument of political power – at least until his bodyguards got fed up with it all and finished him off.

 

Kim Jong-Un overseeing a live fire military drill in March 2013. Photo: AFP/Getty Images
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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism