Misinformation and disinformation are often described as defining illnesses of our time. They feel new, overwhelming, and uniquely corrosive. And yet, history tells a more uncomfortable truth: they have always been with us. What has changed is not their existence, but their speed, scale, and precision.

Long before social media, falsehoods travelled through stone, parchment, pulp, and radio waves, shaping power, fuelling fear, and redrawing the boundaries of trust.

Old lies in old forms

In the 13th century BCE, Ramses II immortalized the Battle of Kadesh on temple walls as a glorious solo victory. The battle was at best inconclusive, but repetition across monuments transformed narrative into “truth.” This was not misinformation by accident; it was deliberate image-making in the service of authority.
 
In ancient Rome, Octavian weaponized rumour against Mark Antony, portraying him as a puppet of Cleopatra and therefore unfit to rule. Coins, poems, and speeches carried the message far and wide.
 
Centuries later, during the Black Death, conspiracy theories accusing Jewish communities of poisoning wells spread across Europe. These lies, fuelled by fear, justified violence and mass persecution. The mechanism was familiar: a moment of crisis, an invisible threat, and a simple narrative that offered someone to blame.
 
Each technological leap gave misinformation a new advantage. The printing press enabled pamphlets and broadsheets to circulate exaggerated or fabricated stories during the French Revolution, intensifying polarization and fear. In the 19th century, “yellow journalism” blurred the line between reporting and manipulation, helping push public opinion toward war.
 
The 20th century turned disinformation into an industry. Under Joseph Goebbels, repetition, emotional appeal, and the systematic dehumanization of enemies became tools of mass persuasion. The Cold War continued this logic on a global scale, embedding disinformation in foreign policy and psychological warfare.
 
What unites these moments is not ideology or medium, but intent: to influence behaviour by reshaping perception.
 
For humanitarian action, misinformation is not unfamiliar territory.
 
When Henry Dunant described the suffering of wounded soldiers after the Battle of Solferino, many doubted his accounts. They were seen by some as exaggerated, sentimental, or politically motivated. Early Red Cross volunteers were accused of espionage, of helping the “enemy,” or of hiding political agendas behind compassion. Neutrality was questioned. Motives were suspect. Trust was fragile.
 
These dynamics did not disappear with time. During cholera outbreaks in the 19th century, aid workers were blamed for spreading disease. During famines and conflicts, humanitarian assistance was portrayed as biased or corrupt. In more recent history, whether during Ebola outbreaks or the COVID-19 pandemic, rumours resurfaced accusing health workers of poisoning communities, harvesting organs, or serving hidden interests. Access was blocked. Volunteers were attacked. Lives were lost.
 
Different centuries. Different technologies. The same patterns.

What makes our moment different and what needs to be done?

Misinformation is not a glitch of the digital age; it is a mirror held up to society in moments of stress. It is a constant companion of crisis, fear, power struggles, and uncertainty. Thus, the challenge before us is not merely technical, but civic and moral.

What has changed is not misinformation itself, but its velocity and amplification. A rumour that once travelled slowly by word of mouth can now cross borders in seconds. Algorithms reward outrage, not accuracy. Manipulated images and synthetic content blur reality. A single false claim can undo years of trust-building overnight.

Today’s environment is not unprecedented, but it is supercharged due to:

• Speed – Falsehoods now cross continents in seconds.
• Scale – Algorithms reward engagement, not accuracy.
• Automation – Bots, deepfakes, and AI-generated content blur the line between real and fabricated at industrial levels.

Where once misinformation required effort and infrastructure, it now thrives almost frictionlessly. A single post can reach millions; a lie no longer needs to be persuasive.

Yet the human vulnerabilities it exploits remain unchanged: fear, identity, grievance, and the desire for simple explanations in complex times.

History offers no illusion of easy fixes, but it teaches us that humanitarian action has endured despite misinformation, not because it eliminated it, but because it learned how to work through it.

Trust was built face by face.

Neutrality was explained patiently, again and again.

Presence mattered more than statements.

Credibility was earned through consistency, humility, and proximity to people’s lives.

Our response today to misinformation and disinformation must be:

• deeper listening, not only faster fact-checking
• stronger local engagement, not just global messaging
• ethical leadership and humility, especially in polarized contexts
• constant investment in trust, which remains our most fragile and most powerful asset. 

Misinformation is not a new obstacle. It is a recurring test. And humanitarian history reminds us that progress is possible, not because the environment is easy, but because humanity remains credible even in the most difficult and noisiest times. Truth does not endure because it is loud, but because it is trusted. And trust, in humanitarian work, has always been built the same way – through presence, integrity, and unwavering respect for human dignity.