Yotam Ophir Examines the Resilience of Misinformation in Health Crises – Center for Information Integrity

It starts with a public health alert—a rare virus, a cluster of cases, an official warning to be careful. But soon enough, the warning is no longer just about the disease. It is about something else: the stories blooming around it, the whispers, the memes, and the confident voices online telling people not to believe what they hear. That is exactly what happened recently when health officials raised concerns about hantavirus, a serious and sometimes deadly illness spread by rodents. Almost as quickly as the news broke, familiar falsehoods began to circulate. Some claimed the outbreak was a hoax, a convenient distraction cooked up by governments or media. Others insisted it was somehow connected to COVID-19 vaccines, reviving theories that had supposedly been put to rest. The New York Times recently turned to Yotam Ophir, an associate professor in the Department of Communication, to help make sense of this phenomenon. Ophir studies how misinformation spreads and why certain narratives cling to life even when they have been thoroughly debunked. His observations offer a valuable window into the strange afterlife of conspiracy theories—and why they keep coming back, stronger and more viral each time, especially in an age where artificial intelligence has put a megaphone in everyone’s hands.

At the heart of Ophir’s comments is a striking and simple idea: conspiracy theories from the COVID-19 era never really disappeared. They just went quiet for a while, lying low like seeds in dry soil. “Lay dormant” is the phrase he used, and it captures something important. It suggests that false beliefs are not like rumors that flare up and then vanish forever. Instead, they are more like old embers that can catch fire again when the right wind blows. During the height of the pandemic, millions of people were exposed to claims about lab leaks, microchips, deceptive politicians, and miracle cures. Some dismissed these ideas immediately, but many others absorbed them, even if they did not actively share them. When COVID-19 began to fade from the headlines, those ideas did not die. They settled into online forums, group chats, and the algorithms of recommendation engines. The believers did not stop believing; they simply waited. Then along came hantavirus, a new public health threat, and all of a sudden those dormant stories had a fresh stage. The old villain—the coronavirus—could be blamed again, but in a new costume. “It’s connected to the vaccine,” some insisted. “It’s a hoax to control us,” others repeated. The details were new, but the emotional core was the same: distrust, fear, and the feeling that official explanations were hiding something sinister. Ophir’s insight helps us see that we are not dealing with isolated myths but with a living, evolving ecosystem of suspicion that recycles itself around each new crisis.

What makes this cycle so much more dangerous now is the role of artificial intelligence. Ophir and other communication scholars have watched with growing concern as AI tools have lowered the barrier for creating and spreading misleading content. In the past, producing a convincing conspiracy theory required at least some effort: writing a long post, editing images, or creating a website. Today, a person with no technical skills can generate an endless stream of realistic text, audio, or video in seconds. Influencers, podcasters, and even anonymous accounts with large followings can use AI to produce polished, compelling content that looks and sounds authoritative. They can invent fake newscasts, fabricate expert testimony, or manufacture supposedly leaked documents—all with a few simple prompts. This is not just about quantity; it is about quality and emotional resonance. AI can tailor messages to specific audiences, testing which phrases generate the most anger, fear, or engagement. It can create personalized falsehoods for different communities, each one designed to feel authentic and relatable. For conspiracy narratives, this is a game changer. A theory that once might have spread through word-of-mouth in small circles can now be amplified into a global chorus within hours. Ophir’s research points to a troubling new reality: when AI makes it easier and cheaper to lie, people can drown out not only experts and journalists but also the very notion of shared truth. The hantavirus misinformation is just a preview of what will happen with every future outbreak, election, or natural disaster.

But to understand why these theories keep resurging, we have to look beyond the technology to the human beings who believe them. Ophir’s work reminds us that conspiracy theories are not simply the result of ignorance or poor critical thinking. They are deeply connected to identity, emotion, and social belonging. When people feel powerless, marginalized, or betrayed by institutions, conspiracy narratives offer something powerful: a sense of clarity and control. They explain confusing events in simple, dramatic terms. They name an enemy, assign blame, and offer a story in which the believer is one of the few who sees the truth. During the pandemic, many people lost jobs, lost loved ones, and lost trust in a world they thought they understood. Hearing that the virus was deliberate or that vaccines were part of a plot was not just a random thought; it was a way to make suffering meaningful. The same dynamic is at play with hantavirus. For someone who has spent years distrusting the government, a new disease outbreak conveniently confirms everything they already believe. The theory is not the problem; it is the solution—a solution to the discomfort of living in an uncertain world. That is why simply presenting facts does not work. Facts speak to our rational mind, but conspiracy theories speak to our hearts and our identities. Ophir’s work suggests that the people who share these messages are often not trying to be malicious; they are trying to assert their agency and connect with others who feel the same way. Understanding this does not excuse misinformation, but it does help us approach it with more compassion—and more effective responses.

The public health stakes of these revived narratives are serious, and Ophir’s comments in The New York Times highlight how dangerous it can be when the line between genuine concern and fabricated falsehood is blurred. Hantavirus is real. People get sick, and some die. Public health officials need the public to listen, to trust warnings, and to take practical precautions like sealing food, cleaning rodent droppings, and seeking medical care when symptoms appear. But when a portion of the public believes the entire outbreak is a hoax, or worse, a deliberate plot tied to vaccines, the message is impossible to deliver. People who reject the official story may fail to protect themselves or their families. The misinformation also creates confusion among those who are not true believers but are simply scrolling through their feeds and seeing conflicting headlines. The result is a fractured public, unable to agree on basic reality. This is exactly what Ophir and his colleagues study, and it is why their work is so essential. They are not just analyzing internet trends; they are trying to understand a major driver of preventable illnesses and deaths. The good news is that communication research offers some clues for what might work better. Instead of simply debunking false claims, experts suggest inundating information spaces with compelling, truthful narratives that compete for attention. They recommend building relationships with trusted community leaders and influencers so that accurate information is not identified with distant elites. They also emphasize the need to name the manipulation tactics people are seeing. When audiences can recognize that AI-generated content or coordinated campaigns are aiming to provoke anger, they become less vulnerable to the emotional pull.

In the end, the story of hantavirus misinformation is not really about rats or vaccines or viruses. It is about what happens when a society loses its shared sense of reality, and what it might take to get it back. Ophir’s observation that old conspiracy theories lay dormant and re-emerge with new crises is a warning. We will never be done with this problem. There will always be a next outbreak, a next election, a next catastrophe for someone to exploit. But if we know that these narratives are going to resurface, we can prepare ourselves. We can teach young people to ask questions about where information comes from and who profits from their fear. We can demand that tech companies take responsibility for the way their platforms and AI tools amplify falsehoods. We can push for more funding for communication research so that we understand not only what spreads, but why we are so drawn to it. And perhaps most importantly, we can remember that the people who fall for these theories are not our enemies. They are neighbors, friends, and family members who are scared and searching for answers. Ophir’s perspective calls for a kind of humility—an admission that the comfort of certainty, even a false certainty, is a powerful human need. The antidote is not just more data, but more presence. It is being there, telling a better story, making it vivid and personal and emotionally resonant. It is recognizing that every hantavirus panic, every COVID-19 myth, every conspiracy theory is a chance for us to practice something that artificial intelligence cannot replicate: genuine human connection. In that sense, the fight against misinformation is not about winning arguments. It is about rebuilding trust, one conversation at a time, so that when the next crisis arrives, we might be ready.