After sifting through the internet for evidence of child sex trafficking, another man, in 2016, decided to take his hunt offline. So he drove several hours to a restaurant in Washington, D.C., recording a video along the way. He believed he was on his way to rescue children from sex traffickers, but when he entered the establishment, carrying a rifle, he found none of the abuse he’d been promised. The video would be played in court, at his sentencing—the first criminal conviction connected to Pizzagate. Along with its later incarnation QAnon, these multi-layered conspiracy theories are informed by age-old fever dreams that tend to coalesce on the right of shadowy networks of pedophiles, protected by the corrupt, and which only the righteous can root out. That’s well-accepted and, at least outside the White House, commonly derided for the terrifying, occult fantasy that it is. But less acknowledged is how these moral panics helped just as much to drive groups like OUR, when they take up guns as vigilantes to take down traffickers, while documenting their exploits for an online audience invited to participate by sharing and donating. QAnon has surpassed OUR’s online following now—Facebook counts more than 3 million members and followers of QAnon groups, and reporting by The Guardian suggests that number is growing. As they have grown in both number and clout, I have found myself asking, Who is influencing who?
These two groups are barely comparable—one a registered charity with a staff and an IRS paper trail, one an ever-shifting collection of people drawn to the postings of an anonymous message board user. Yet both now operate in the same chaotic space, swimming in the same false claims and exaggerated campaigns which for two decades have imagined sex trafficking as an omnipresent danger that no one can see and no one is talking about—except for them.
Seven years ago, as OUR tells its origins story, Tim Ballard left his job as an agent in the Department of Homeland Security to launch a group where he could do the same work, unbound by the government. When I met him at a junket in lower Manhattan five years ago, he implored us assembled members of the media to be like modern-day “Harriet Beecher Stowes,” telling the stories of the children Ballard and his undercover operatives say they liberate from child sex trafficking. It is very modern: the abolitionists he styles himself after didn’t have 501c3s. In 2019, “Operation Underground Railroad Inc.” brought in more than $22 million, and he served as a White House anti-trafficking advisor, appointed by President Trump. Flourishing as they are in the Trump era, it is hard to say if OUR has gained respectability despite their vigilantism or because of it.
The QAnon movement, in contrast, is bound together by a conspiracy theory involving shadowy networks of child sex traffickers, from the Democratic Party to Hollywood. They believe a violent crackdown is coming, and they will play some role. QAnon Facebook groups, compared to even Ballard and OUR’s significant online audience, churn an incredible volume of child sex trafficking content. Their reach is such that when the president announces an otherwise not-newsworthy human trafficking policy, QAnon Facebook groups help propel the news into three of the top ten spots for the day. According to Media Matters researcher Alex Kaplan, Trump himself has amplified QAnon accounts from his Twitter account at least 200 times. That has certainly raised their profile. But QAnon has grown so much of late through successfully seeding their messages out in otherwise basic-seeming anti-child sex trafficking “awareness” raising.