Meeting Kosovo's clickbait merchants

One clickbait merchant chose to remain anonymous

Two weeks ago, I was sitting in a dark bar in a small town an hour's drive from Kosovo's capital, Pristina. In front of me, a man was nervously hunched over, his face turned away from the camera.

He was a fake news merchant and he agreed - eventually - to talk about how he earned his living.
I first came to Kosovo over a year ago when researching a book about how power was changing in the digital age.
I'd heard about shadowy Russian influence campaigns and militaries fighting warfare with information.
But the people I met there showed me there was another, very simple reason why people sent false and sensationalist news to Western audiences. It was for the money - they share it because we click on it.
Clickbait and "fake news" are terms sometimes used interchangeably to describe false or sensationalist material circulating on the web.
A year ago, "Burim" showed me that misinformation was a flourishing industry. Some of what he described was political, far more of it was gore.
"Dog Groomer Who Kicked Dog till its Ribs Broke Remains Jail-Free" was one story. "Boy Comes out of Coma after 12 Years, Whispers Dark Secret to Parents [video]" was another.
Much of it was false. And while some of it looked like news, this was content for one reason alone: clicks.
Making money from the internet means capturing audiences and the merchant I spoke to owned about a dozen Facebook pages, dedicated to anything from evangelical Christianity to holiday destinations.
Whatever their theme, the audiences were huge: 90,000 likes; 240,000 likes; 26,000 likes.
Burim could get his content to nearly a million pairs of eyeballs and he turned those clicks into ad revenue - both within the social media platform and on external sites. He earned about 600 euros (£520) a day.
It's far more money than any of the legitimate jobs he could take would offer him.
Carl Miller has documented the clickbait industry in Kosovo
Since I met Burim, the tech giants have vowed to shut this industry down. Fake news is what Mark Zuckerberg calls his "personal challenge".
In 2018, Facebook doubled its security team to 20,000 and closed down many groups and pages that shared clickbait, squeezing their content towards near invisibility.
So, last month, I went back, this time with the BBC. I wanted to see if anything had changed and what Facebook's anti-fake news drive really looked like in the eyes of the people who peddled the stuff.
"The audience on that page is mainly UK," the man said, grinning, hunched over his phone so that the camera couldn't catch his face.
It is difficult to tell exactly how large this illicit economy had become in the past. But Facebook's reforms, I heard again and again, have had some effect. Page after page had been shut down. Income had fallen from 600 euros a day to about 100.
Spreading false news, then, has become less profitable - and possibly also less political. It has apparently morphed into celebrity hype, false stories of footballers breaking legs or lurid sexual gore. The content creators were sharing trivia, not Trump.

Comments

What's Popular

Luke Perry's daughter Sophie hits out at online 'grief-shamers'

Professor Stephen Hawking's nurse struck off over his care

DR Congo: Violence may be crime against humanity, UN says

North Korea election: Surprise as leader Kim Jong-un 'not on ballot'