One of the biggest problems with social media is the glaring inefficiency of their search functions. Sometimes, I even suspect that these search tools are intentionally kept so basic and ineffective so that, rather than actively searching for content, users are forced to trust the platform’s AI and become dependent on it.
At a moment of utter frustration, I decided to search Instagram for “focus.” Opening the Explore section, I typed “focus” into the search bar. A list of pages appeared with usernames and descriptions such as: “Focus Coach,” “Focus Camp,” “Focus & Attention Workshop,” “Club of the Focused,” and similar.
At first glance, their pages seemed dull and monotonous. Then I realized that might be part of the point—someone promoting focus probably shouldn’t overly embellish their page, as it would undermine the message. Almost every page I opened had dozens of stories, where followers shared how these teachings had transformed their lives, and the hosts responded to private questions.
Under each post, comments were filled with emojis, praise, “Exactly!,” “Well done,” and “As always, amazing.” It felt like a form of worship, with focus coaches appearing as saviors, guiding their lost followers to the “shore of happiness.”
Unique rituals and practices were present, offering a distinctive lifestyle.
How should we analyze these worlds, which are numerous and not limited to focus coaches? What are these self-styled “coaches,” mentors, and groups doing, and why have they become so popular? Should we consider them dangerous, toxic cults peddling comforting falsehoods, or new forms of fandom and social cohesion?
When Instagram launched in 2012, Amanda Montell installed the app to grow faster online. The first word that caught her attention was “follower.” On Facebook, someone following a page was called a “friend,” but “follower” suggested discipleship or adherence—a different resonance.
Montell recalls that when she saw “follower” on Instagram, she joked to her friends: “This app was built for cults, isn’t it? Now everyone can start a little cult of their own.” Not long after, her question was answered. With Instagram’s rise, thousands of people began spreading alternative spiritualities online: astrologers, shamans, Viking seers, promoters of Native American wisdom, self-styled priests of ancient temples, and astrologers using ancient principles to tell people the best times for activities or avoidance. Subscribing promised access to higher planes, beyond space, time, and even death.
If we want to call pages built around such beliefs “cults,” we may need to rethink traditional definitions. Historically, before cults became a moral panic in the 1970s, they were primarily seen as religious splinter groups arising from disagreements within a faith. During the 1970s counterculture movements, cults also became part of the diverse “anti-culture” landscape.
In her recent book, Montell examines these Instagram groups from a fresh perspective. While they tirelessly promise extraordinary rewards to followers and demand loyalty, they lack some of the most toxic characteristics of previous cult leaders. Crucially, as long as their activities remain confined to social media, they cannot physically threaten or isolate followers. Even the most devoted followers enjoy far greater freedom to leave or hear alternative viewpoints compared to members of older, traditional cults.
However, we should not assume that the era of cults has completely ended. If Marx was correct that in our times “all that is solid melts into air,” then cults have lost their solid form, but traces—like smoke—remain.
Understanding cults and their linguistic and behavioral patterns should not lead to paranoia or obsessive fear of cult-like behavior. Rather, we need tools to critically evaluate what we encounter, verify claims when necessary, and remember that life is more complex than any single person or group can encompass.
Source:
Adapted from the editorial: “How Instagram Became a Cult Temple?” Mohammad Molaabbasi, Tarjomān Journal, Issue 21, Year 6, 2021, pp. 12–17.
