QAnon
Based on Wikipedia: QAnon
On October 28, 2017, someone calling themselves "Q Clearance Patriot" posted a message on 4chan—an anonymous imageboard notorious for its anything-goes culture—claiming that Hillary Clinton was about to be arrested. The arrest, they said, would trigger mass unrest across America. Within hours, a second message appeared, slightly walking back the first: Clinton was being "detained" but not yet arrested. Donald Trump, the anonymous poster claimed, was quietly removing "criminal rogue elements" from the government.
Clinton was not arrested. She was not detained. None of it was true.
But that didn't matter. What started as an anonymous post on an obscure corner of the internet would metastasize into one of the most influential conspiracy movements of the twenty-first century, drawing millions of followers worldwide, inspiring acts of violence, and culminating in a mob storming the United States Capitol. The movement came to be known as QAnon.
The Theory at the Heart of It All
At its core, QAnon promotes a staggering claim: that a secret cabal of Satan-worshipping pedophiles—including prominent Democratic politicians, Hollywood celebrities, and wealthy elites—operates a global child sex trafficking ring. According to believers, Donald Trump was waging a covert war against this cabal, and a climactic reckoning called "the Storm" would soon arrive, bringing mass arrests, military tribunals, and executions of the guilty.
The name "Q" came from the poster's implied credentials. In the American government, Q clearance is a Department of Energy security classification required to access top-secret information about nuclear weapons. The anonymous poster was claiming, in other words, to be a high-level government insider with access to classified intelligence about Trump's secret battle against the forces of evil.
The "Anon" part of QAnon comes from the culture of anonymous posting on imageboards like 4chan. An "anon" is simply an anonymous internet poster—someone who participates in online communities without revealing their identity.
The Pizzagate Prelude
QAnon didn't emerge from nothing. Its direct ancestor was Pizzagate, a conspiracy theory that erupted in 2016 after hackers leaked emails from John Podesta, Hillary Clinton's campaign chairman. Conspiracy theorists became convinced that innocuous words in these emails—"pizza," "pasta," "cheese"—were actually code words for child sexual abuse.
The theory fixated on Comet Ping Pong, a pizza restaurant in Washington, D.C., which believers claimed was the site of horrific crimes involving high-profile Democrats. In December 2016, a man drove from North Carolina to the restaurant and opened fire with an assault rifle, searching for imaginary child victims. Fortunately, no one was injured. But Pizzagate demonstrated something alarming: online conspiracy theories could inspire real-world violence.
QAnon researcher Mike Rothschild has argued that "no conspiracy theory feeds more immediately into Q than Pizzagate." The new movement took Pizzagate's core premise—powerful Democrats engaged in organized child abuse—and expanded it exponentially, weaving in elements from dozens of other conspiracy theories to create a sprawling, interconnected mythology.
The Anonymous Predecessors
Q wasn't even the first anonymous poster to claim government insider knowledge. The imageboard culture had already produced several such figures. In July 2016, someone calling themselves "FBIAnon" claimed to be a high-level analyst with inside knowledge of the investigation into Hillary Clinton, posting false information and promising that Clinton would be imprisoned if Trump won.
Around the same time, "HLIAnon" (High-Level Insider Anon) conducted lengthy question-and-answer sessions, spinning elaborate theories including the claim that Princess Diana was murdered for trying to prevent the September 11 attacks. After the 2016 election, "CIAAnon" and "CIAIntern" falsely claimed to be senior Central Intelligence Agency officers. In August 2017, "WHInsiderAnon" promised that something major was "going to go down" involving Democratic Party leaks.
The pattern was established: anonymous posters claiming secret government access, offering tantalizing hints of coming revelations, attracting devoted followers hungry for forbidden knowledge. Q simply did it better than anyone before.
The Drops Begin
Q's first posts appeared on 4chan's /pol/ board—a forum dedicated to political discussion that had become a hub for far-right content and conspiracy theories. The initial thread was titled "Calm Before the Storm," a phrase Trump had cryptically used weeks earlier while posing for photos with military leaders. That phrase would become central to QAnon mythology.
After the initial failed predictions about Clinton's arrest, Q pivoted to a different approach. Rather than making specific, falsifiable claims, Q began posting cryptic, puzzle-like messages that became known as "drops" or "Q drops." These posts were deliberately vague and fragmentary—questions rather than statements, hints rather than revelations, riddles for followers to decode.
This was ingenious, if unintentional. By making the messages ambiguous, Q allowed followers to find whatever meaning they wanted. When predictions didn't come true, believers could reinterpret them. The vagueness became a feature, not a bug. It transformed passive consumers into active participants, "researchers" piecing together the grand puzzle.
Q's activity surged in November 2017. Posts expanded on theories about Hillary Clinton and added new threads involving Barack Obama, Saudi Arabia, and Iran. An entire internet subculture emerged around analyzing and interpreting the drops. Followers began scrutinizing Trump's public appearances for hidden signals—at one point, the president sipping water from a bottle was interpreted as a secret sign that mass arrests were imminent.
The Mythology Expands
QAnon quickly outgrew its Pizzagate origins. Where Pizzagate focused on a single restaurant and a handful of Democratic figures, QAnon implied a vast, worldwide conspiracy. The movement absorbed and integrated elements from numerous other conspiracy theories: fears of a "deep state" bureaucracy working against Trump, antisemitic tropes about Jewish financiers controlling world events, satanic panic narratives from the 1980s, and anti-vaccination beliefs.
Some of the specific claims became increasingly bizarre. Followers spread rumors that Hillary Clinton, her daughter Chelsea, and Senator John McCain had already been secretly arrested and were wearing ankle monitoring bracelets during public appearances. A theory called "Frazzledrip" claimed that a "snuff" video existed showing Hillary Clinton and her aide Huma Abedin murdering a child, drinking her blood, and wearing the skin from her face as a mask.
These claims were not just false but grotesque—the kind of accusations that, in earlier centuries, might have led to witch trials or pogroms. The antisemitic undertones were particularly notable. QAnon fixated on George Soros, the Jewish billionaire philanthropist who has been the target of antisemitic conspiracy theories for decades, and on the Rothschild banking family, a centuries-old target of those who believe in secret Jewish control of world finance.
From 4chan to the Mainstream
In November 2017, two 4chan moderators—Paul Furber, a South African conspiracy theorist, and Coleman Rogers—partnered with a YouTuber named Tracy Diaz to bring QAnon to a wider audience. They created a community on Reddit called r/CBTS_Stream (standing for "Calm Before The Storm") where subscribers could discuss Q's posts.
This was a crucial turning point. Reddit was far more accessible than 4chan, with its confusing interface and transgressive culture. The subreddit attracted new followers who might never have ventured onto an imageboard. Reddit eventually banned the community in March 2018 for inciting violence and posting private information, but by then the genie was out of the bottle.
Q's posts migrated to 8chan, an even more extreme imageboard than 4chan, with Q citing concerns that 4chan had been "infiltrated." When 8chan was shut down in August 2019 following its connection to the El Paso mass shooting, followers briefly moved to a site called Endchan before 8chan was relaunched as 8kun.
But the real spread happened through mainstream social media. QAnon content flooded Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. Influential figures amplified the movement: Fox News personality Sean Hannity and comedian Roseanne Barr shared QAnon content with their millions of followers in early 2018. Alex Jones, the far-right conspiracy theorist behind InfoWars, claimed to be in personal contact with Q.
Into the Rally Crowds
The movement's visibility in the physical world grew. At a July 2018 Trump rally in Tampa, Florida, QAnon followers appeared in force for the first time, holding signs and wearing Q-themed clothing. It was no longer just an online phenomenon—it was showing up at political events, in merchandise, in churches.
Some Christian pastors began incorporating QAnon into their ministry. The Indiana-based Omega Kingdom Ministry combined Q posts with Bible readings during services. For many believers, QAnon took on quasi-religious significance—a battle between good and evil, light and darkness, with Trump as a messianic figure chosen to defeat Satan's earthly minions.
QAnon merchandise proliferated. Amazon's marketplace offered a growing selection of Q-branded products. A book called "QAnon: An Invitation to the Great Awakening," supposedly authored by twelve QAnon followers, climbed near the top of Amazon's bestseller list in 2019. By 2020, Politico reported that roughly 100 QAnon-related titles were available on Amazon in multiple languages.
The Question of Q
Who was Q? The identity behind the posts has never been definitively established, though evidence has pointed to several possible figures, most notably the administrators of 8chan and its successor 8kun.
What seems clear is that Q was not a single person operating consistently over time. The writing style and apparent knowledge base shifted. The movement, regardless of who originated it, became bigger than any individual—a self-sustaining mythology that thousands of people contributed to and elaborated upon.
Aggregator websites and apps played a crucial role in spreading Q's messages. The most popular was QMap, run by someone using the pseudonym "QAPPANON." In September 2020, the British fact-checking organization Logically identified QAPPANON as Jason Gelinas, a New Jersey-based security analyst. QMap shut down shortly after his identity was revealed.
Facebook's internal investigations found that the platform hosted thousands of QAnon-themed groups and pages with millions of members. One particularly unusual influencer, Austin Steinbart, gained a following by claiming that Q was his own future self, communicating back through time.
Foreign Amplification
QAnon wasn't just an American phenomenon—it spread internationally and received help from foreign actors. According to Reuters, Russian-backed social media accounts were promoting QAnon claims as early as late 2017. Russian state media outlets RT and Sputnik amplified the conspiracy theory, using it as evidence of American division and dysfunction.
A 2021 report from the Soufan Center, a national security research organization, found that one-fifth of QAnon posts originating in the United States between January 2020 and February 2021 actually came from foreign countries, with Russia and China as the primary sources. China, the report noted, was the "primary foreign actor touting QAnon-narratives online."
The far-right Epoch Media Group, associated with the Falun Gong spiritual movement, also became a major QAnon promoter through its outlet The Epoch Times. Research from the University of Southern California found that roughly a quarter of accounts using QAnon hashtags were automated bots.
By August 2020, QAnon-dedicated Facebook pages existed in 71 countries. The German and Japanese movements grew particularly strong, though the Japanese version (sometimes called "JAnon") remained fringe even among conspiracy theorists. In April 2022, Tokyo police arrested members of a Japanese QAnon group called YamatoQ for breaking into a health clinic that provided COVID-19 vaccinations.
The Violence Begins
From the beginning, QAnon carried the potential for violence. The movement told its followers that they were engaged in an existential battle against child-torturing Satanists. How could anyone believe such things and remain passive?
QAnon believers have committed numerous violent acts. Some murdered family members they suspected of being part of the cabal. Others planned or attempted kidnappings. The movement's overlap with other extremist communities—including white supremacists and militia groups—created a volatile mix.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation identified QAnon as a domestic terrorism threat. Law enforcement officials warned about the danger posed by people who believed they were saving children from demonic pedophiles and might see violence as justified.
The 2020 Election
The 2020 presidential election became a focal point for QAnon activity. Followers supported Trump's campaign and engaged in what researchers called "information warfare"—spreading false claims, amplifying misleading content, and attempting to influence voters through social media.
When Joe Biden won the election, QAnon believers refused to accept the result. They promoted baseless claims of widespread voter fraud, insisting that Trump had actually won and that the election was being stolen. Associates of Trump, including his former national security advisor Michael Flynn, attorneys Lin Wood and Sidney Powell, promoted conspiracy theories derived from or aligned with QAnon.
The "Storm" that Q had promised—the mass arrests of the cabal, the vindication of Trump, the revelation of truth—was always about to happen. When Trump lost, followers insisted this was all part of the plan. The Storm would still come. Trust the plan.
January 6th
On January 6, 2021, as Congress met to certify Biden's electoral victory, a mob of Trump supporters stormed the United States Capitol. Among them were many QAnon believers, easily identifiable by their Q-themed clothing, signs, and flags.
The most iconic image from that day may have been Jacob Chansley, the "QAnon Shaman," who entered the Senate chamber bare-chested, wearing face paint and a horned fur headdress. He became a symbol of the insurrection's surreal quality—armed invaders who seemed to believe they were heroes in a cosmic drama.
The Capitol attack represented both the climax and the crisis of the QAnon movement. Believers had anticipated that Trump would somehow prevail, that the Storm would finally arrive, that their faith would be vindicated. Instead, Biden was inaugurated on January 20th without incident. Trump left office. The promised mass arrests never happened.
The Aftermath
The failed insurrection triggered a sustained crackdown on QAnon by social media platforms. Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube removed QAnon accounts and groups at scale. Many prominent influencers lost their platforms. The flow of Q drops, which had been slowing, stopped entirely.
Some followers experienced what researchers compared to a cult member's crisis of faith. They had believed deeply, organized their understanding of the world around these ideas, invested their identities in the movement. When the predictions failed to materialize, some quietly drifted away, embarrassed.
But movements like QAnon rarely die completely. While the specific QAnon infrastructure crumbled, many of its ideas dispersed into the broader ecosystem of conspiracy thinking. Claims about elite pedophile rings, stolen elections, and shadowy deep state conspiracies continued to circulate, no longer branded with the Q logo but carrying the same essential themes.
Researchers have described QAnon as a kind of "big tent" conspiracy theory—flexible enough to absorb and incorporate almost any paranoid belief. Anti-vaccine activism, election denialism, fears of global governance, distrust of mainstream media: all could be folded into the QAnon framework or, after QAnon's decline, carry forward its patterns of thinking.
Why Did People Believe?
Understanding QAnon requires grappling with an uncomfortable question: why did millions of people believe claims that seem, to outsiders, obviously absurd?
Several factors converged. Social media algorithms optimized for engagement discovered that conspiracy content kept people clicking, watching, sharing. The platforms that connected QAnon believers to each other also connected them to an endless stream of reinforcing content.
The participatory nature of QAnon—the puzzle-solving, the "research," the sense of belonging to a community uncovering hidden truths—provided meaning and purpose. For people who felt alienated from mainstream institutions, distrustful of traditional media, and anxious about social change, QAnon offered an explanation for why the world seemed wrong and a promise that things would soon be set right.
The core emotional appeal was genuine moral outrage. Child sexual abuse is real and horrifying. Elite impunity is real and infuriating. The claim that powerful people were hurting children and getting away with it resonated because it connected to legitimate concerns, even as it channeled those concerns into a fantasy that did nothing to help actual victims of abuse.
The Cult Question
Researchers and journalists have repeatedly compared QAnon to a cult. The comparison is imperfect—there was no single charismatic leader, no compound, no formal organization—but the psychological dynamics showed significant overlap.
Followers developed an unshakeable faith in Q's authority. They interpreted current events through the lens of Q's teachings. They separated from friends and family members who refused to accept the truth. They believed they possessed secret knowledge unavailable to ordinary people. When predictions failed, they found ways to explain the failures that preserved their core beliefs.
The damage to families was real and widespread. Parents lost children to the movement. Spouses divorced over QAnon beliefs. Friendships dissolved. The internet is full of anguished testimonies from people who watched loved ones disappear into the conspiracy.
Lessons and Legacies
QAnon revealed something important about the information environment of the early twenty-first century. It showed how easily false claims could spread through social networks, how online communities could reinforce and radicalize each other, how political leaders could exploit conspiracy thinking for their own purposes.
It also demonstrated the difficulty of combating such movements. Debunking individual claims did little to sway true believers, who saw fact-checkers as part of the conspiracy. Platform bans came late and proved only partially effective. The underlying conditions that made QAnon possible—distrust of institutions, algorithmic amplification of extreme content, political polarization, economic anxiety—remained in place.
Perhaps the most troubling legacy is how QAnon normalized the integration of conspiracy theories into mainstream politics. Before QAnon, few serious political candidates would openly embrace claims about Satanic pedophile cabals. By 2020, candidates who had expressed support for QAnon won congressional primaries. The movement's ideas, if not its name, had entered the political mainstream.
The Storm never came. But the tempest that QAnon both reflected and helped create—the crisis of shared reality, the erosion of trust, the mainstreaming of the extreme—continues to shape American politics in ways that will take years to fully understand.