Researched and written in the years preceding September 11, and published in April 2001, Them – which Ronson described in a preface to its second edition as “a snapshot of life in the Western world on 10 September 2001” – is turning 25.
Ronson’s original plan was to spend time with people who’d been described as “the extremist monsters of the Western world” as they went about their everyday lives. They included neo-Nazis, militias and Omar Bakri, a UK Islamic fundamentalist who called himself “Osama Bin Laden’s man in London”, and whom Ronson shadowed for a year in 1996 for a documentary.
Among other things, Ronson recorded the “clownish” Bakri watching the Lion King with a baby on his knee, and asking him to guard the money he’d been collecting for Hamas in giant Coca Cola bottles, while he retrieved a coat – which he agonised over as a Jewish person, but did (seemingly to avoid awkwardness).
Bakri, who told the Daily Mail the September 11 attacks were “exciting”, was barred from the United Kingdom after leaving in 2005. In 2010, he was arrested in Lebanon and sentenced to life in prison after a terrorism trial. Released pending retrial, he was sentenced again in 2015 to six years hard labour.
“I thought that perhaps an interesting way to look at our world would be to move into theirs and stand alongside them while they glared back at ours,” Ronson writes. But what started as a series of profiles of extremist leaders “quickly became something stranger”, when he realised the very different people he was following all shared a belief in the New World Order: a conspiracy theory that imagines “a tiny elite rules the world from inside a secret room”.
This tyrannical, shadowy elite, Ronson soon discovered, was said to launch wars and wield almost unimaginable power. It has the ability to, among other things, “select and cast out the heads of state, control Hollywood and the markets and the flow of capital, operate a harem of under-age kidnapped sex slaves”.
If there was any truth to the theory, Ronson reasoned, there must be an actual secret room, and it had to be located somewhere. So he resolved to find it.
At various points, he found himself chased by men in dark glasses and surveilled from behind trees. He also managed to witness robed international chief executives participate in a bizarre effigy-burning ritual in the forests of northern California – an experience he shared with Jones, then a harmless-seeming regional radio crank, based in Texas.
Now, 25 years on, that worldview has arguably become easier to sustain than Ronson could have imagined. Revelations surrounding figures such as Jeffrey Epstein – who did operate a network of underage girls he coerced into sexually servicing powerful men – have shown the wealthy and powerful can and do conceal serious and shocking crimes through networks of influence and privilege.
But rather than confirming the existence of a secret cabal directing world events, such scandals have often been absorbed into far broader conspiracy narratives – from QAnon to claims about bloodthirsty global elites harvesting adrenochrome from children – further blurring sometimes porous lines between fact and fiction.
Genuine curiosity and refusing caricature
The book helped to establish Ronson’s distinctive investigative approach: an interest in the fringe and the unusual, approached with a genuine sense of curiosity and a refusal of easy caricature.
This sensibility has run through his work since, from The Men Who Stared at Goats (looking at bizarre, fringe tactics adopted by the US army) and You’ve Been Publicly Shamed (an early critique of social media shaming) to his culture war conspiracy theories podcast series, Things Fell Apart.
But Them also propelled Jones into the mainstream – which Ronson has publicly regretted. When Ronson got to know him, “Alex was hollering his powerful apocalyptic vision down an ISDN line from a child’s bedroom in his house, with choo-choo train wallpaper and an Empire Strikes Back poster pinned on the wall”.
Since then, Jones has been “successfully sued” and has filed for bankruptcy after being found liable for defamation for his claims that the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting was staged and “no one died”.
Sadly, what once seemed extreme and marginal – the circulation of conspiracy theories and the associated peddling of prejudice and hate – now feels depressingly routine.
Just as it inadvertently captured the historical moment about to erupt with the September 11 attacks and their aftermath, Them anticipated the mainstreaming of conspiratorial thinking, which would become a defining feature of our misinformation-ridden historical moment.
Paranoia as the new common sense
“Paranoia was the new common sense,” writes columnist John Ganz in When the Clock Broke: Con Men, Conspiracists, and How America Cracked Up in the Early 1990s. “The country seemed to be seeking something new, a break with the exhausted possibilities of the past but also a restoration, a way to recover what had been lost.”
At the end of the 1980s, the Berlin Wall had been reduced to rubble and the communist bloc was crumbling. Excitable liberals were wittering on about the end of history. America stood triumphant, seemingly without rival. And yet something felt off.
Ganz argues appearances were deceptive. “America felt itself to be losing out: losing its dominant place in the world, losing the basis of its security and wealth, and losing its sense of itself.”
There had to be an explanation. And there had to be someone to blame.
This bled through in the culture of the early 1990s. “Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you,” sang Kurt Cobain, capturing the zeitgeist on Nevermind (1991). It was the time of Oliver Stone’s JFK (1991) and The X-Files (1993). The truth, we were told, was out there. Trust no one – especially anyone in a position of authority.
Ruby Ridge: ground zero?
This atmosphere permeates Them’s second chapter, on the bloody Ruby Ridge standoff in regional Idaho in August 1992. Also permeating the chapter – and the book – are Ronson’s stated aims of painting people “as complicated grey areas, rather than magnificent heroes or sickening villains” and sticking “to the nuanced truth, rather than flattening it to make ideological points”.
Randy and Vicki Weaver were among the first Americans to articulate fears about the New World Order. In the 1980s, they moved from Iowa to a plywood cabin without electricity, high in the Idaho ranges. There, they home-schooled their children, living among bears and mountain lions.
Randy felt the need, Ronson tells us, to socialise from time to time. He made friends within the nearby Aryan Nations community and attended their summer camps with his children four times – though he told Ronson he wasn’t personally a white supremacist, but a “separatist”.
One such friend was an undercover agent, who asked Randy to sell him two illegal sawn-off shotguns. Once arrested, Randy was offered a choice: spy on Aryan Nations for the government or face time behind bars for illicit gun running. He went with the second option. Warned they could lose their house and convinced the New World Order was monitoring them (which was not untrue now), the Weavers stopped showing up to court.
In August 1992, US marshals hiding in the bushes shot the Weavers’ barking family dog as it came too close. Ronson reports that Weaver’s teenage son Sammy fired random shots in response, and was shot and killed. A marshal was killed too. Hundreds of federal agents descended, martial law was declared, and residents emerged from their homes bearing placards denouncing the New World Order. Vicki was shot and killed while holding her infant daughter.
Media coverage recast the human tragedy as a national psychodrama about extremism, government overreach and the collapse of public trust.
In the following months, militia movements expanded rapidly across the US. The infamous siege in Waco, Texas, where David Koresh’s Branch Davidians clashed with federal agents, ending with 75 members dead, unfolded in Texas less than a year later.
For many in the American far right, the ruined Weaver cabin became a symbol of resistance and martyrdom, assuming a quasi-mythic status. One pilgrim who visited was Timothy McVeigh, later responsible for the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, which killed 168 people and injured close to 700.
Bilderberg: a secret society running the world?
Ronson soon realised the same name was on the lips of the various militia members and anti-government activists he spoke to: the Bilderberg Group. These are the people who actually run the world, they believed. Bilderberg was described as “the Roman Senate” or “a pyramid”.
Jones explained: “They’re way up there. Below them you’ve the IMF, the World Bank, the United Nations, then you’ve got us down here, the cattle, the human resources.” At the time, he was funding efforts to rebuild the Branch Davidian church.
Ronson first encountered Jones while interviewing Randy Weaver, who considered the then regional radio host “a true and tirelesss warrior”. Jones explained the Bilderbergers were orchestrating world decline from the behind the scenes. As with many conspiracy theories, the line between fantasy and reality was not always easy to discern.
The Bilderberg Group is real. It even has its own website. Established in the wake of World War II, it consists of annual private meetings attended by political and industrial leaders, financiers, media executives and royalty. It is, without doubt, a highly secretive organisation – which has intensified the suspicion around it.
Interestingly, UK politician Peter Mandelson, former US ambassador and friend of Epstein even after his conviction, is named in the book as a Bilderberg attendee.
This explains how Ronson eventually found himself sneaking into Bohemian Grove, the annual retreat (since 1878) of a secretive, elite club whose attendees “read much like a Bilderberg roll-call”, alongside Jones.
There, hidden among the redwoods of northern California, wealthy and politically connected men, many of them drunk, gathered for an elaborate ceremony centred on burning an effigy before a giant owl statue. Harmless elite play-acting, or dastardly occult ritual conducted by the secret rulers of the world? Ronson saw the former, Jones the latter.
In his short book on Donald Trump’s first presidential campaign, The Elephant in the Room (2026), Ronson describes watching the alt-right move steadily closer to political power, propelled in part by “leading voice” Jones – who reportedly received a swift call from a newly elected Trump, thanking him for his support.
Despite a lingering “personal” fondness for his fellow Bohemian Grove crasher, Ronson calls him “basically the most irresponsible man I have ever met”, who “uses his powers to inflame paranoia” and “boldly makes stuff up to suit his weird agenda”.
Lizard people
I first became aware of David Icke, former semi-professional footballer and respected sports journalist, now a believer in giant lizards, in April 1991. I was at home, watching TV, not yet ten years old.
Icke was being interviewed live on a prime-time UK talk show, wearing an eye-wateringly lurid turquoise tracksuit. He had recently started to refer to himself as the “Son of the Godhead”. On air, he made a series of predictions about imminent and devastating natural catastrophes. The audience, not knowing what to make of it all, laughed.
Ronson describes the moment:
He said this with such ferocity, such conviction, that the audience stopped laughing for a moment […] You could feel it sweep across the television studio, sweep across the land, a stirring of some primordial paranoia. Could David Icke actually be a soothsayer?
But in fact, ridicule and opprobrium followed the segment. In the period after his very public shaming, Ronson records, Icke came to believe his mockery had been orchestrated by shadowy elites. He immersed himself in conspiracy literature, including on the Bilderberg Group.
Icke became convinced the global elite were not merely corrupt politicians or financiers, but something much stranger: shape-shifting reptilian beings manipulating humans across millennia. Ancient civilisations, occult rituals and modern political institutions were all folded into a single explanatory system.
The reptilian invaders, he concluded, were the secret rulers of the world.
Critics have long argued his talk of secret reptilian elites functions as a coded form of antisemitism, echoing older conspiratorial myths – including ideas traceable to The Protocols of the Elders of Zion.
Yet Ronson suggests Icke genuinely believes the world is controlled by interdimensional lizard people.
The promise of hidden forces
This creates a puzzle. If someone claims giant lizards secretly control the planet, are we dealing with metaphor, coded prejudice, mental instability, opportunity or sincere belief? Increasingly, it seems the answer may be some unstable combination of them all.
Part of what makes Them feel so relevant now is that Ronson rejects the reassuring assumption that extremist or conspiratorial thinking falls outside the bounds of ordinary life.
Long before social media turned paranoia into a viable business model, he grasped that bizarre ideas do not emerge from nowhere. Rather, they are shaped by spectacle, distrust, insecurity and the seductive promise that hidden forces can explain an increasingly bewildering world – often with disastrous consequences.
Given Ronson’s record of books on topics just hitting (or about to explode into) the mainstream, the topic of his forthcoming one, to be published in August, is unsurprising: the masculinity crisis.
Alexander Howard, Senior Lecturer, Discipline of English and Writing, University of Sydney
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
