Song of songs: a 19th-century illustration of a nightingale from an engraving by Kronheim. Photo: Private Collection/Look and Learn/Bridgeman Images
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Helen Macdonald: Our springs grow emptier as the birdsong falls silent

Every year, the hedgerows are quieter. The author of H is for Hawk mourns the loss of the spring birds – and issues a warning for the future.

At this time of year my Twitter timeline fills with birds. People are rushing to tweet their first sightings of spring migrants: posting photographs of wheatears on dunes, telling everyone exactly where they saw the year’s first sand martins flying inland from the sea. This urge to record bird arrivals baffled me when I was young. I would roll my eyes at people who wrote to the Times because they had heard a cuckoo, who noted the date and time of their first whitethroat of the year. It seemed more like a trainspotterish game of one-upmanship than something meaningful about the season.

I was wrong. I didn’t know how useful such records could be, nor what spring would turn into in years to come. Back then it just meant newness: blossom and lambs, eggs and ducklings. But the meanings of seasons change as you age, and now these spring migrants tug at my heart partly because their arrival means “the globe’s still working”, as Ted Hughes put it in his poem “Swifts”, and partly because I’m still alive to see them. Across Britain and Europe people are waiting eagerly for birds to return from Africa: cuckoos, nightingales, swallows, pipits, martins, wagtails, flycatchers and more, each first sighting always a surprise, each arrival stitching the season into place. No wonder birders want to share these moments with others. For them, these birds are what spring is made of.

But it’s not just a matter of personal celebration. The sightings have scientific value. Britain pioneered the organised amateur reporting of birds with the founding of the British Trust for Ornithology in Oxford in 1933. Two years later it announced that organised teamwork by field observers had become a normal, everyday feature of birdwatching in Great Britain. Ever since, the trust has collected and analysed records submitted by members of the public on birds’ arrival and departure dates and the size of their breeding populations, a store of ornithological data that grants us awful proof of how our springs are changing.

Birds are arriving earlier. Some are overwintering rather than moving south. And worst of all, their numbers are crashing. Turtle doves, whose low crooning Julian Huxley once considered to be the best possible expression of English midsummer afternoons, are almost extinct. Spotted flycatchers, tree pipits and nightingales are in deep trouble. Habitat degradation in the UK and Africa, pesticides, urban development, climate change, all play their part. Our springs grow emptier and quieter every year.

The furore over the proposed development of ex-Ministry of Defence land at Lodge Hill in Kent, mentioned recently by John Burnside in this magazine, is not a simple battle between houses and breeding nightingales, George Osborne’s “feathered obstacles”. Nor is it just the terrible precedent that will be set for nature conservation in the UK should a designated Site of Special Scientific Interest be destroyed. Seventy years ago nightingales were common across England. They sang from Buckinghamshire woods, Aldershot gardens, from bushes along the Sheringham seafront at night. Now they hang on in the south and east, and their numbers are still declining. So are the numbers of people able to hear them.

Someone once told me that nightingales should be preserved because of their place in western literature. I suppose that is an argument. But not everyone has read Keats and Clare, and nightingales do not speak to me of poetry at all. They are simply astonishing, in and of themselves. I’ve taken many people to hear them. Once they have listened to a nightingale in full voice, they yearn to hear that sound again. Its absence lessens our lives. What will happen if Lodge Hill is destroyed is not just the disappearance of 85 pairs of a migrant bird species, but a thinning of human experience, a shrinking of the available meanings of spring.

I took a friend to look for nightingales on a cold April morning last year. We went to Paxton Pits, a reserve of scrub and lakes sprawling across old gravel-workings in Cambridgeshire. It is renowned for its nightingales: coachloads of people come here to listen to them. We walked under hurrying clouds and fat spots of rain and stopped at a bend in the path. In a mess of angled elder stems, nettles and shadows, I heard a small phrase, half a throatful of song. Then it stopped.

We peered into the undergrowth. There was the nightingale, on a slim twig, side-on. A brown robin with a rusty tail. His beak opened again. Another four or five notes, then silence, his eyes half closed, wings fallen to his sides. He hitched them back into place and they fell to his sides again. I wondered for a moment if this bird was sick. And then I realised that he was simply exhausted. He’d just arrived on his long flight from Guinea, up the west coast of Africa, across Europe, over the English Channel and into this bush he remembered from last year.

Then, as we looked at the small, weary bird, the rain burst through the canopy of leaves, and he shook himself, and started to sing. Properly sing. A huge bowl of notes, a sound that would fill a concert hall, music that filled the leaves and the air around them and the spaces under the trees and rolled out across the darkness of the day, a small bird singing to welcome itself home, and to make this place spring again.

Helen Macdonald’s “H is for Hawk” is newly published in paperback by Vintage

This article first appeared in the 27 March 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Double 2015

An artist's version of the Reichstag fire, which Hitler blamed on the communists. CREDIT: DEZAIN UNKIE/ ALAMY
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The art of the big lie: the history of fake news

From the Reichstag fire to Stalin’s show trials, the craft of disinformation is nothing new.

We live, we’re told, in a post-truth era. The internet has hyped up postmodern relativism, and created a kind of gullible cynicism – “nothing is true, and who cares anyway?” But the thing that exploits this mindset is what the Russians call dezinformatsiya. Disinformation – strategic deceit – isn’t new, of course. It has played a part in the battle that has raged between mass democracy and its enemies since at least the First World War.

Letting ordinary people pick governments depends on shared trust in information, and this is vulnerable to attack – not just by politicians who want to manipulate democracy, but by those on the extremes who want to destroy it. In 1924, the first Labour government faced an election. With four days to go, the Daily Mail published a secret letter in which the leading Bolshevik Grigory Zinoviev heralded the government’s treaties with the Soviets as a way to help recruit British workers for Leninism. Labour’s vote actually went up, but the Liberal share collapsed, and the Conservatives returned to power.

We still don’t know exactly who forged the “Zinoviev Letter”, even after exhaustive investigations of British and Soviet intelligence archives in the late 1990s by the then chief historian of the Foreign Office, Gill Bennett. She concluded that the most likely culprits were White Russian anti-Bolsheviks, outraged at Labour’s treaties with Moscow, probably abetted by sympathetic individuals in British intelligence. But whatever the precise provenance, the case demonstrates a principle that has been in use ever since: cultivate your lie from a germ of truth. Zinoviev and the Comintern were actively engaged in trying to stir revolution – in Germany, for example. Those who handled the letter on its journey from the forger’s desk to the front pages – MI6 officers, Foreign Office officials, Fleet Street editors – were all too ready to believe it, because it articulated their fear that mass democracy might open the door to Bolshevism.

Another phantom communist insurrection opened the way to a more ferocious use of disinformation against democracy. On the night of 27 February 1933, Germany’s new part-Nazi coalition was not yet secure in power when news started to hum around Berlin that the Reichstag was on fire. A lone left-wing Dutchman, Marinus van der Lubbe, was caught on the site and said he was solely responsible. But Hitler assumed it was a communist plot, and seized the opportunity to do what he wanted to do anyway: destroy them. The suppression of the communists was successful, but the claim it was based on rapidly collapsed. When the Comintern agent Gyorgy Dimitrov was tried for organising the fire, alongside fellow communists, he mocked the charges against him, which were dismissed for lack of evidence.

Because it involves venturing far from the truth, disinformation can slip from its authors’ control. The Nazis failed to pin blame on the communists – and then the communists pinned blame on the Nazis. Dimitrov’s comrade Willi Münzenberg swiftly organised propaganda suggesting that the fire was too convenient to be Nazi good luck. A “counter-trial” was convened in London; a volume called The Brown Book of the Reichstag Fire and Hitler Terror was rushed into print, mixing real accounts of Nazi persecution of communists – the germ of truth again – with dubious documentary evidence that they had started the fire. Unlike the Nazis’ disinformation, this version stuck, for decades.

Historians such as Richard Evans have argued that both stories about the fire were false, and it really was one man’s doing. But this case demonstrates another disinformation technique still at work today: hide your involvement behind others, as Münzenberg did with the British great and good who campaigned for the Reichstag prisoners. In the Cold War, the real source of disinformation was disguised with the help of front groups, journalistic “agents of influence”, and the trick of planting a fake story in an obscure foreign newspaper, then watching as the news agencies picked it up. (Today, you just wait for retweets.)

In power, the Nazis made much use of a fictitious plot that did, abominably, have traction: The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a forged text first published in Russia in 1903, claimed to be a record of a secret Jewish conspiracy to take over the world – not least by means of its supposed control of everyone from bankers to revolutionaries. As Richard Evans observes, “If you subject people to a barrage of lies, in the end they’ll begin to think well maybe they’re not all true, but there must be something in it.” In Mein Kampf, Hitler argued that the “big lie” always carries credibility – an approach some see at work not only in the Nazis’ constant promotion of the Protocols but in the pretence that their Kristallnacht pogrom in 1938 was spontaneous. (It is ironic that Hitler coined the “big lie” as part of an attack on the Jews’ supposed talent for falsehood.) Today, the daring of the big lie retains its force: even if no one believes it, it makes smaller untruths less objectionable in comparison. It stuns opponents into silence.

Unlike the Nazis, the Bolshevik leaders were shaped by decades as hunted revolutionaries, dodging the Tsarist secret police, who themselves had had a hand in the confection of the Protocols. They occupied the paranoid world of life underground, governed by deceit and counter-deceit, where any friend could be an informer. By the time they finally won power, disinformation was the Bolsheviks’ natural response to the enemies they saw everywhere. And that instinct endures in Russia even now.

In a competitive field, perhaps the show trial is the Soviet exercise in upending the truth that is most instructive today. These sinister theatricals involved the defendants “confessing” their crimes with great
sincerity and detail, even if the charges were ludicrous. By 1936, Stalin felt emboldened to drag his most senior rivals through this process – starting with Grigory Zinoviev.

The show trial is disinformation at its cruellest: coercing someone falsely to condemn themselves to death, in so convincing a way that the world’s press writes it up as truth. One technique involved was perfected by the main prosecutor, Andrey Vyshinsky, who bombarded the defendants with insults such as “scum”, “mad dogs” and “excrement”. Besides intimidating the victim, this helped to distract attention from the absurdity of the charges. Barrages of invective on Twitter are still useful for smearing and silencing enemies.


The show trials were effective partly because they deftly reversed the truth. To conspire to destroy the defendants, Stalin accused them of conspiring to destroy him. He imposed impossible targets on straining Soviet factories; when accidents followed, the managers were forced to confess to “sabotage”. Like Hitler, Stalin made a point of saying the opposite of what he did. In 1936, the first year of the Great Terror, he had a rather liberal new Soviet constitution published. Many in the West chose to believe it. As with the Nazis’ “big lie”, shameless audacity is a disinformation strategy in itself. It must have been hard to accept that any regime could compel such convincing false confessions, or fake an entire constitution.

No one has quite attempted that scale of deceit in the post-truth era, but reversing the truth remains a potent trick. Just think of how Donald Trump countered the accusation that he was spreading “fake news” by making the term his own – turning the charge on his accusers, and even claiming he’d coined it.

Post-truth describes a new abandonment of the very idea of objective truth. But George Orwell was already concerned that this concept was under attack in 1946, helped along by the complacency of dictatorship-friendly Western intellectuals. “What is new in totalitarianism,” he warned in his essay “The Prevention of Literature”, “is that its doctrines are not only unchallengeable but also unstable. They have to be accepted on pain of damnation, but on the other hand they are always liable to be altered on a moment’s notice.”

A few years later, the political theorist Hannah Arendt argued that Nazis and Stalinists, each immersed in their grand conspiratorial fictions, had already reached this point in the 1930s – and that they had exploited a similar sense of alienation and confusion in ordinary people. As she wrote in her 1951 book, The Origins of Totalitarianism: “In an ever-changing, incomprehensible world the masses had reached the point where they would, at the same time, believe everything and nothing, think that everything was possible and that nothing was true.” There is a reason that sales of Arendt’s masterwork – and Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four – have spiked since November 2016.

During the Cold War, as the CIA got in on the act, disinformation became less dramatic, more surreptitious. But show trials and forced confessions continued. During the Korean War, the Chinese and North Koreans induced a series of captured US airmen to confess to dropping bacteriological weapons on North Korea. One lamented that he could barely face his family after what he’d done. The pilots were brought before an International Scientific Commission, led by the eminent Cambridge scientist Joseph Needham, which investigated the charges. A documentary film, Oppose Bacteriological Warfare, was made, showing the pilots confessing and Needham’s Commission peering at spiders in the snow. But the story was fake.

The germ warfare hoax was a brilliant exercise in turning democracy’s expectations against it. Scientists’ judgements, campaigning documentary, impassioned confession – if you couldn’t believe all that, what could you believe? For the genius of disinformation is that even exposure doesn’t disable it. All it really has to do is sow doubt and confusion. The story was finally shown to be fraudulent in 1998, through documents transcribed from Soviet archives. The transcripts were authenticated by the historian Kathryn Weathersby, an expert on the archives. But as Dr Weathersby laments, “People come back and say ‘Well, yeah, but, you know, they could have done it, it could have happened.’”

There’s an insidious problem here: the same language is used to express blanket cynicism as empirical scepticism. As Arendt argued, gullibility and cynicism can become one. If opponents of democracy can destroy the very idea of shared, trusted information, they can hope to destabilise democracy itself.

But there is a glimmer of hope here too. The fusion of cynicism and gullibility can also afflict the practitioners of disinformation. The most effective lie involves some self-deception. So the show trial victims seem to have internalised the accusations against them, at least for a while, but so did their tormentors. As the historian Robert Service has written, “Stalin frequently lied to the world when he was simultaneously lying to himself.”

Democracy might be vulnerable because of its reliance on the idea of shared truth – but authoritarianism has a way of undermining itself by getting lost in its own fictions. Disinformation is not only a danger to its targets. 

Phil Tinline’s documentary “Disinformation: A User’s Guide” will be broadcast on BBC Radio 4 at 8pm, 17 March

This article first appeared in the 27 March 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Double 2015