As the local government elections draw near in South Africa, the digital spaces where voters gather have become as contested as any ward or municipality. It’s a familiar scene: a person sits on a minibus taxi, phone in hand, thumb scrolling through a torrent of political posts. A video appears that shows a candidate from an opposition party making a shocking statement. It’s blurry, out of context, but deeply alarming. Without checking, they forward it to a family group chat. Within hours, the video has been viewed thousands of times, and the damage is done. But the video was a deepfake, a cheaply assembled piece of manipulation designed to smear. This type of reality is exactly why the Electoral Commission of South Africa (IEC) has stepped in ahead of the polls. Recognising that the battle for votes is now fought on social media platforms as much as on the ground, the IEC has gazetted a formal code of conduct. This code is not merely a polite suggestion; it places enforceable duties on political parties and candidates to behave responsibly in the online space. Its aim is clear: to minimise the spread of disinformation and create a healthier, more truthful environment for voters to make their choices. The move acknowledges that while many people trust what they see on their screens, the machinery of distortion is sophisticated, well-funded, and often deliberately weaponised against vulnerable democracies.
What does this new code actually require of political players? At its core, it demands that parties and candidates treat the truth as a campaign asset, not an inconvenience. Before sharing a claim, a party must verify it, a process that sounds simple but is radical in an era of speed-is-power politics. More notably, the code stipulates that if a party or candidate discovers they have posted something inaccurate or misleading, they are obliged to correct it within 36 hours. This is a substantial shift from the usual game of trickle-truth, where politicians only retract after being caught with evidence. The emphasis on a specific time window forces them to act quickly to unspool the lie, rather than allowing it to circulate freely while lawyers craft a careful denial. Additionally, the code compels parties to report instances of online disinformation they encounter, making them active participants in policing the digital public square rather than passive beneficiaries of a murky online climate. This combination of duties, verification, correction, and reporting, establishes a framework of accountability. It means that every statement shared by a representative is essentially a contractual promise to the electorate. For the ordinary citizen, the code provides a degree of protection against being deliberately manipulated by sophisticated campaigns. It also pressures political operatives to become more cautious, to think about the consequences of a hasty post, and to build internal mechanisms that fact-check before publishing. While no set of rules can fully eradicate malicious intent, the very act of codifying these expectations sends a powerful message that truth matters enough to regulate.
A core piece of the puzzle, and one of the most valuable contributions to the public conversation, is the simple clarification of terms many of us use interchangeably. Social media researcher and Murmur co-founder Kyle Findlay put it plainly: disinformation is a deliberate, knowing lie. The person posting it knows they are sharing something misleading, and they intend for it to deceive. Misinformation, on the other hand, is misleading content shared without malicious intent. Perhaps someone shares a comic that exaggerates a politician’s position, or reposts a statistic without realising it’s from an unverified source. They aren’t trying to hurt anyone; they are simply passing along something they found interesting. Understanding this distinction is not just a linguistic exercise; it affects how we respond. Disinformation requires a forceful, regulatory response because it’s an act of aggression against the democratic process. Misinformation, while still harmful, often stems from human error, credulity, or the innocent desire to share breaking news first. Findlay’s framing helps voters recognise their own potential role in this ecology. When you share something false without knowing, you are contributing to misinformation. But once you know it’s false and share it anyway, you become a participant in disinformation. This is a sobering thought. The IEC’s code of conduct touches on both, and by forcing parties to correct mistakes, the commission is making it clear that ignorance is not an excuse. It expects these public actors to be vigilant. But for ordinary people, the lesson is deeply personal: we are all tiny editors in a vast information network, and the judgment we apply before pressing share has consequences.
Beyond individual posts, the new rules also target a much more sinister beast: the industrialised manipulation of public opinion. This includes fake accounts, bot armies, and the coordinated use of social media to amplify certain messages while drowning out others. Findlay revealed that South Africa has a well-established black market for paid influence. This isn’t the stuff of science fiction; it is a transactional reality. Anyone, from a polished political brand to a struggling independent candidate, can go online and buy engagement. They can purchase followers to inflate their numbers, hire networks of bot accounts to like, retweet, or post supportive comments, and even use sophisticated software to make a particular hashtag trend nationally. The consequences of this for democracy are devastating. An idea can be manufactured to look like a grassroots consensus, a fringe viewpoint can be promoted so heavily that it appears to be the will of a majority. Findlay described this as creating the illusion that there is consensus or groundswell support for an idea when, in reality, there is none. Ordinary voters rely on signals like popularity and reach to guide their own opinions. When those metrics are faked, the public is being cheated. They are being led to believe that a political movement has far more traction than it actually does, which can sway undecided voters and even influence how the media covers a story. The IEC’s prohibition on coordinated manipulation is a necessary block against this kind of digital fraud. However, enforcement is inherently difficult, as paid bots often operate anonymously and from beyond national borders. Still, the act of identifying and banning these tactics in the electoral code is a step forward. It criminalises what was once just considered dirty politics, and it gives watchdogs a clearer legal basis to demand accountability from platforms.
Yet for all the importance of rules and enforcement, the real test of our informational health lies in our own behavior. Findlay highlighted an uncomfortable truth: none of us are immune to the cognitive short-circuits that social media creates. We scroll through our phones while standing in queues, sitting in traffic, or lying in bed, endlessly consuming bite-sized fragments of political news. These snippets are, by definition, decontextualised. We see a headline, a short clip, or an angry post, and we make a snap judgment based on that tiny piece of information. We rarely open the full article, check the source, or verify the speaker’s original words. Emotion is the engine of viral content, and posts that are designed to make us angry, fearful, or defensive are the ones most likely to get that instant share. Findlay specifically warned about emotionally charged posts that blame whole groups of people for complex societal problems. Such posts are not just simplistic; they are often intentionally crafted to weaponise our tribal instincts. The IEC’s code of conduct may force parties to think twice, but it won’t stop the average person from spreading a lie in the heat of the moment. Therefore, he suggests a simple but powerful discipline: pause before hitting the share button. Ask yourself: Why am I sharing this? Does it make me feel good, or does it make me feel righteous? Am I sharing it because it’s true or because it confirms what I already want to believe? By cultivating this slower, more reflective approach to media consumption, we can each become a firewall against misinformation. It is a quiet, personal civic duty, one that complements the official regulatory actions taken by the IEC.
Ultimately, the IEC’s code of conduct is a bold attempt to hold cynical politicians to account. Findlay acknowledged that in any political landscape, there are always ambitious populists who will say whatever they need to say to win votes, and the truth is often the first casualty in that scenario. These politicians thrive on chaos, on half-truths, on the outrage economy. The new rules are designed to make that path less attractive. By forcing verification, correction, and reporting, they are aiming to inject a moment of caution into the mind of every campaign manager. The hope is that the next time someone considers launching a smear video or warning about an invented crisis, they will hesitate, knowing the IEC is watching and the consequences could include sanctions or public embarrassment. But as important as this code is, it is not a silver bullet. It cannot force citizens to become more intelligent or more critical. It cannot rewire our human tendency to seek out validating information and avoid cognitive dissonance. What it can do is reshape the incentive structures that currently reward dishonesty. By making truth a compliance issue, it elevates honesty from a moral nicety to a legal requirement. This shift in tone is significant for a country still wrestling with its legacy of division and inequality, where fake news can translate rapidly into real-world tension. The upcoming elections will be a litmus test for this new approach. If parties and candidates take their obligations seriously, we may see a slightly cleaner, more rational public debate. If they ride the edge, the IEC’s enforcement will be tested. Either way, the conversation has been opened. We, as citizens, now know the difference between disinformation and misinformation. We know about the bots and the bought engagement. And with that knowledge comes responsibility. We must not be easy prey. We must engage with what we see, not as passive reactors, but as deliberate, informed participants. That is the real message of this code of conduct: an invitation to South Africans to become guardians of their own democracy, one thoughtful share at a time.