Elections are supposed to be about the future—about hopes, policies, and the quiet, stubborn faith that a vote can change things. But this time, something felt different. When NORDIS, one of fifteen EDMO Hubs, teamed up with its Swedish partners, Källkritikbyrån and the Fojo Media Institute, they didn’t just watch the ballots; they watched the noise around the ballots. Looking back at this election season, they found a landscape crowded with suspicion and illusion: persistent claims of election interference, quiet whispers of voter fraud, and an unsettling wave of AI-generated content blurring the line between what was real and what was manufactured. It wasn’t just about who won or lost. It was about whether people could trust what they were seeing at all. The whole experience felt less like a traditional campaign and more like trying to navigate a hall of mirrors, where every slogan could be twisted, every image could be faked, and every piece of news deserved a second look. The task of these fact-checkers and media researchers was not simply to debunk falsehoods, but to understand how falsehoods take root in the first place, and why they spread with such alarming speed in the digital age. What emerged from their work is a cautionary tale, but also a deeply human one, because misinformation isn’t just a technical failure—it’s a reflection of our fears, our biases, and our desperate need to make sense of a complicated world. It is a story about how democratic trust gets frayed, and how ordinary citizens became reluctant detectives in their own information lives.
The first familiar pattern was the claim of election interference. For years, the specter of foreign powers reaching into democratic processes has haunted European politics, and this election was no different. Fact-checkers noticed a steady drumbeat of stories suggesting that outside actors were trying to rig the outcome—some stories vague, some alarmingly specific. They described mysterious cyberattacks, invisible networks of bots, and shadowy operatives working behind the scenes to tip the scales. The problem was that many of these claims were either impossible to verify or highly exaggerated, and some were outright fabrications with no evidence behind them. Yet they spread anyway, often through social media, where urgency outruns accuracy. The psychological pull is understandable. Elections are high-stakes, and the idea that an unseen hand is pulling the strings can feel more plausible than the boring truth that politics is messy, chaotic, and full of human error. But the insistence on interference did real damage. It convinced some voters that their own participation was meaningless, that the entire system was a fraud from the start. Instead of energizing democratic engagement, these narratives bred cynicism and passivity. The fact-checkers at NORDIS and their Swedish colleagues worked hard to investigate each claim, tracing it back to its source, comparing it with official records, and trying to provide calm, evidence-based clarity. But they soon realized that a simple correction was rarely enough. A claim of election interference isn’t just a factual error; it’s a story that satisfies a deep emotional need. Humans want to believe that world events are orchestrated by powerful forces, because random chance and human fallibility are much harder to accept. That narrative keeps the story alive even after the facts have been debunked, which is why the fight against such claims is so exhausting and so important.
Alongside interference narratives came the second major theme: voter fraud. It is a persistent myth that has taken on new life in recent years, and Swedish fact-checkers saw it emerge in multiple forms during the election. There were claims of ballot boxes appearing from nowhere, of people voting multiple times under fake names, of election officials quietly discarding valid votes. Each story carried a hint of scandal, promising proof that the entire election was illegitimate. Yet, when investigators followed the threads, the evidence almost never materialized. Time after time, they found that the alleged fraud was a misunderstanding, a misreading of election protocols, or simply a deliberate invention designed to create chaos. The emotional pull of voter fraud stories is hard to overstate. They offer a simple explanation for a complex outcome: if your side lost, it must be because the system was rigged. That is a far more comforting narrative than the thought that your preferred candidate simply didn’t persuade enough people. The idea of a stolen election gives supporters a heroic role—they become defenders of justice, fighting against an invisible corruption. But this comes with a dangerous cost. When voter fraud myths circulate, they undermine the very foundation of democratic legitimacy. People begin to question the integrity of the entire process, and some may stop voting altogether, feeling that their voices will never truly count. The fact-checkers responded with patience, publishing detailed analyses, speaking with election officials, and walking through the safeguards that make widespread fraud nearly impossible. They tried to show that democracy is not perfect, but that is not the same as saying it is corrupt. Yet in an era of short attention spans and emotional outrage, complicated explanations rarely compete well with a dramatic accusation. The whispers of fraud persisted, weaving themselves into public conversations and leaving a residue of doubt even when the specific cases were proven false. It is a reminder that misinformation is not simply about getting facts wrong—it is about shaping how people feel about their own institutions.
The third and perhaps most unsettling theme was the rise of AI-generated content. This election became a testing ground for synthetic media, with deepfakes, fake audio, and artificially created images blurring the line between reality and fiction. Some of the content was crude and easily spotted, but other pieces were disturbingly convincing. There were fabricated videos that appeared to show political figures saying offensive things, manipulated photographs that placed candidates in compromising situations, and AI-authored articles that looked almost indistinguishable from genuine journalism. The proliferation of such content presented a unique challenge for fact-checkers, because a single fake image or video could go viral in seconds, while verification took time and expertise. Even after a piece was debunked, the damage was already done. The original fake had been seen by thousands, perhaps millions, while the correction was seen by a small fraction of that audience. This asymmetry is a core problem in the age of synthetic media. It creates what researchers call the “liar’s dividend”: even when something is debunked, the suspicion lingers, and people become unsure which images and quotes are authentic. Worse, the existence of AI-generated content makes it easier for people to dismiss real evidence as fake. When faced with an uncomfortable video of a politician, a supporter can simply claim it was a deepfake, even if it was completely genuine. The truth becomes optional, and every piece of media becomes suspect. The NORDIS partners, including Källkritikbyrån and Fojo Media Institute, spent countless hours tracing the origins of viral content, analyzing metadata, and using digital forensics to expose the fabrication. Their work revealed that many AI-generated pieces were not meant to persuade people to change their minds, but rather to intensify existing divisions. The goal was not to convert voters, but to make them angry, suspicious, and disoriented. In that sense, the AI content was less about supporting a specific party and more about undermining the shared sense of reality that democracy depends upon.
In response to this challenging environment, Källkritikbyrån and the Fojo Media Institute did far more than simply debunk individual falsehoods. They recognized that the ultimate defense against misinformation is a public that is capable of critical thinking. This is why much of their work focused on media literacy and education. Källkritikbyrån, whose name translates roughly to “the source criticism bureau,” has long been a pioneer in teaching people how to evaluate information critically. During the election, they ran workshops, published guides, and created accessible tools that helped ordinary voters understand how to spot manipulated content, check the credibility of sources, and question the motives behind viral posts. They taught people to look for the original source, to cross-check information with independent outlets, and to be wary of content that provokes an instant emotional reaction. The Fojo Media Institute, with its deep roots in journalism training, brought another dimension to the effort. Fojo worked with reporters across the Nordic region, helping them develop the skills needed to navigate the new information disorder. Journalists learned how to verify user-generated content, how to interview sources in affected communities, and how to communicate complex findings in a way that resonated with audiences. The collaboration between these organizations and NORDIS demonstrated the importance of building a strong fact-checking ecosystem across borders. Misinformation does not respect national boundaries, and neither does the response to it. By sharing data, analytical methods, and best practices, the entire Nordic region benefited from a more coordinated defense. But the most striking aspect of their work was the emphasis on human connection. They did not treat misinformation as an abstract problem, but as a lived experience affecting vulnerable communities. Fact-checkers went beyond their computers, engaging with voters, listening to their concerns, and acknowledging the real anxieties that fuel belief in conspiracy theories. This empathetic approach proved essential, because people who feel heard are far more willing to reconsider their beliefs than those who are simply told they are stupid or misled.
As the election came to a close and the dust began to settle, the NORDIS partners took stock of what they had learned. There were no easy victories in their battle against misinformation. They had successfully debunked many individual claims, but the overall information landscape remained fragile, marked by polarization, distrust, and an overwhelming volume of content. Yet there was also a thread of hope woven through the difficulties. They saw ordinary people becoming more cautious, more willing to pause before sharing, more curious about the origins of what they saw. They saw teachers incorporating digital literacy into their classrooms, parents talking to their children about the dangers of manipulated images, and neighbors sharing fact-checking tips with one another. This was not a revolution, but a slow, human process of adaptation. The fact-checkers themselves learned that technical tools and algorithms are not enough; the real work happens in conversations, in relationships, in the quiet moments when someone decides to think twice. The election of 2024 may have been marked by misinformation, but it also exposed the resilience of democratic instincts. Despite the confusion, despite the deepfakes, despite the cold waves of fabricated content, people still went to the polls. They still participated in the ancient, messy, hopeful act of choosing their own leaders. That persistence is worth remembering. Democracy has always been fragile, and it has always relied on a shared commitment to truth. That commitment is now harder than ever, tested by technology and relentless manipulation. But the work of NORDIS, Källkritikbyrån, and the Fojo Media Institute shows that it is possible to fight back, not only by proving what is false, but by building communities that value what is real. In the end, the struggle against misinformation is not a technical problem to be solved once and forever. It is an ongoing human effort, requiring patience, empathy, and a stubborn belief that facts still matter. And as long as there are people willing to do that work, the mirror can be cracked, and the truth can find a way through.