October-November 2025 67
By Ama Al-Zaki
T
he first time I posted something
that really mattered — honest, a
little vulnerable, maybe even raw —
the likes and comments came
quickly. I should have felt seen, but
something was o. The usernames looked
strange, and the comments felt hollow.
Gradually, it dawned on me: I wasn’t talking
to people at all. I was talking to scripts, bots,
code. It was like being lied to by a crowd that
doesn’t exist.
I used to measure how well a post did by
how many people liked it. Now, I find myself
questioning what those numbers even mean.
Were they real people? Did it reach anyone
who actually cared? There’s something quietly
devastating about putting part of yourself out
there and realising it’s been swallowed by
noise.
Living in Ireland, this disconnect confuses.
Our towns and cities are dotted with the
oces of companies that shape the global
internet. Social media seem real. Yet what we
see online is increasingly distorted.
Phone farms, rooms filled with thousands
of cheap phones run by a single operator to
simulate fake engagement, aren’t just a
distant fraudster’s trick anymore. They’re part
of everyday marketing, influence, and,
sometimes, emotional manipulation. With the
help of artificial intelligence, these bots can
do more than just react; they can now
converse, flatter, and even try to persuade.
In 2022, Facebook reported removing 1.3
billion fake accounts in just the first quarter
of the year — more than 14 million fake
accounts created per day. Twitter (now X)
estimated in 2022 that over 5% of daily active
users were fake or spam accounts, but Elon
Musk claimed the number could be over 20%,
grounding his abortive attempt to back out of
buying the controversial platform.
I didn’t know any of this when I first noticed
that o feeling on a post with thousands of
likes. But once you start spotting the patterns
you begin to realise just how much of our
online world is a performance. It’s a
manipulated version of the truth.
It’s easy to fall for. Oine, a crowd suggests
value; online, we rate likes and shares the
same way. A recent study in the Harvard
Kennedy School’s Misinformation Review
found that generative AI is increasingly
responsible for amplifying its own content on
platforms like X. In other words, popularity
becomes its own proof of credibility.
Emotionally, the impact is just as real. When
you start to question whether a compliment is
sincere, or whether a community is genuine,
you begin to withdraw. That doubt creeps in
quietly, but it changes how you engage. It has
changed how I engage.
The big tech platforms say they’re fighting
back. Meta, for example, claims it removes
millions of fake accounts every year. But the
OECD and the G20’s Financial Stability Board
have warned that AI-driven disinformation
could trigger flash crashes, market panic, or
even real-world bank runs, unless regulation
and monitoring keep pace with technology.
For honest creators, it’s a tough landscape.
When you’re trying to build a genuine
audience but find yourself competing with
bots boosted by algorithms, it’s natural to
wonder if it is worth it.
What worries me most is how easily this
warping of reality slips under the radar.
Ireland has the tools to push back: between
our EU position, our tech workforce, and our
public interest in media truth. But digital
manipulation doesn’t come with sirens. It’s
quiet, embedded. That’s why public
awareness is just as critical as platform
policy.
There are signs of hope. Researchers from
the Carnegie Endowment and Harvard
Kennedy School are developing tools to
detect AI-generated engagement. Their early
trials suggest that transparency, like clear
labelling and alerts, can help reduce the
spread of false content. But these measures
are still incipient.
Ireland has a role to play here: above just
hosting data centres. We have the technical
know-how, the EU policy influence, and an
aware public. But we also need digital literacy:
not just to spot fakes, but to value real human
connection. We need to remember that not
every share is trust and not every like is love.
For me, the change came quietly. I’ve
deleted my personal Instagram account. It
feels surreal, considering I had it for 13 years.
I used to post every day: photos from the gym,
anything really, and I relied on that quick buzz
of approval. It became a loop: share, wait,
refresh, compare. But once I started realising
I couldn’t tell who was real and who wasn’t, I
knew I had to cut it o.
I created a new account just for my writing,
but I haven’t posted anything on it. I don’t
want likes or comments. I don’t want to build
connection through something that might not
even be real. The truth is, it’s made me
happier. There’s a strange kind of freedom in
letting go of all that. When you realise the
likes, the followers, even the news and the
comments might be fake maybe you’ll value
more what remains! I logged o, and I’m still
here. More myself than I’ve been in years.
Ama Al-Zaki is an Irish writer whose work
explores grief, healing, power, and digital
culture
LIES, DAMNED LIKES
AND STATISTICS
Were they real people?
Did it reach anyone who
actually cared?
What does like
mean, online?
CULTURE

Loading

© 2015 Village Magazine

Back to Top