Of all the ways to discuss science, debating debunked antivaccine activists, historically speaking, is an awful idea. Having one moderated by a clueless contrarian, and buoyed by a loudmouthed billionaire, would be one surefire way to make it even worse.
That’s precisely the circus that vaccine scientist Peter Hotez wisely refused in mid-June, amid a storm of angry invective and even threats on his life.
Even without adding the unedifying spectacle of the world’s richest man, Elon Musk, most popular podcaster, Joe Rogan, and a sycophantic fanbase into the mix, debating debunked antivaccine activists such as Robert Kennedy, Jr., is simply misguided. Trust me, I’ve made the mistake of debating perhaps the world’s most infamous antivaccine figure, and all it does is debase science and harm the public.
The mistake Hotez dodged and I made—no matter how well meant—was to participate in an adversarial format that presents science and pseudoscience as equals, creating a false balance between truth and lies. When evidence overwhelmingly supports one position while discrediting another, treating them as equivalent gives a misleading impression that a settled question—vaccination—is scientifically contentious. This is a Trojan horse for the most odious of mythologies.
One of those myths is antivaccine ideology, revived in 1998, when gastroenterologist Andrew Wakefield alleged a link between the measles-mumps-rubella (MMR) vaccine and autism. Through constant press conferences and the embrace of the antivaccine movement, that weak study of just 12 children led to panic across Europe. Vaccine uptake plummeted, with deadly effect.
Wakefield was later exposed as a fraud. His paper was retracted in 2010, and he was struck off the medical register for gross misconduct. In his 2016 documentary, however, he painted himself as a martyr to a clandestine global conspiracy. In the din of media attention, I received an excited call that year from an Irish regional radio station; Wakefield was coming into studio, would I debate him?
Given Wakefield’s incontrovertible dishonesty, I urged them reconsider Wakefield’s appearance. The producer however, cited strong local interest and claimed a rival broadcaster sympathetic to his claims was offering Wakefield an uncontested slot. He was appearing either way; the only question was whether he would encounter opposition. I reluctantly agreed to the debate with a proviso that I would speak on why giving him a platform to air discredited lies was a mistake in the first place.
The studio experience proved immensely frustrating. After I outlined why Wakefield’s claims were baseless and detailed his utter deficit of credibility, Wakefield dismissed me as an agent of a pharmaceutical conspiracy, which was (and is) nonsense. I reproached him for telling people that the medical and scientific profession was lying to them while he, a proven fraud, was not. Disagreement spiraled. It culminated in a string of increasingly ridiculous assertions from an irate Wakefield before I ended the interview, reminding him of the blood on his hands.
The segment that aired however was whittled down to a disconnected mess, my criticisms absent completely.
The whole sorry experience was a hard lesson. Far from showcasing science, false-balance debates allow evidence-free fringe ideas to leech vampirically off the respectability of well-established theories. Cigarette companies muddied the clear scientific consensus that smoking was harmful just this way. Faced with incontrovertible evidence of harm, they instead amplified fringe figures, encouraging debate to confound that messaging. One 1969 memo put it bluntly, stating that “doubt is our product since it is the best means of competing with the ‘body of fact’ that exists in the mind of the general public.” Cynical as this is, it is remarkably effective at crafting a public aura of doubt over science, the same practices adopted by fossil fuel companies today about climate change.
For proponents of unevidenced positions, debate is a device for converting nonsense into audience. The oxymoronic “intelligent design” movement, a repackaging of creationism, attempted to position biblical literalism as equivalent to the copiously evidenced theory of evolution, insisting schools “teach the controversy.” These specious debates saw atrocious bad-faith techniques, like “Gish gallops” where a speaker utters as many misrepresentations, false claims and outright lies as possible.
Antivaccine activists don’t care whether they lose the debate; they win by amplifying their message. For Kennedy, pushed as a long-shot presidential candidate by what political scientist Norm Ornstein termed “bozo billionaires” disdainful of regulation and taxes, attention is the whole, sorry, game.
These spectacles feed a misconception that debate is alien to science, and consensus emerges from some arcane priesthood in lab coats. Yet evidence-guided debate is integral to science. It just requires a devotion to evidence and honest enquiry.
Joe Rogan’s podcast, despite its outsized cultural footprint, is just entertainment. Rogan has no obligation to either fairness or fact, nor is he qualified to moderate a scientific debate or judge one. Rather, his show has a long track record of amplifying fringe science, conspiracy theory and baseless contrarianism, the very criticisms Hotez made in passing on getting into a clown car. It’s difficult to envision a forum more ill-suited to scientific debate.
Crucially, noting that bad-faith debate serves as a poor vehicle for scientific understanding is in no way equivalent to a call for its censorship. Far from being a coward, Peter Hotez has for years engaged in honest and respectful discussions, engaging vaccine-hesitant parents in conversation to allay their fears and concerns. While performative contrarians might bluster and fume, he has pursued a far more productive route than any vapid “debate” could ever offer.
This is an opinion and analysis article, and the views expressed by the author or authors are not necessarily those of Scientific American.
