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Moreover, Indians who wanted to pursue a career in conventional medicine often encountered prejudice when they attempted to join the Indian Medical Service, so a more realistic (and cheaper) career option was to train to be a homeopathic practitioner. It was also felt that homeopathy and the Hindu Ayurvedic system of medicine could work together in harmony, and there were even rumours that Hahnemann himself had studied traditional Indian medicine.

As the decades passed, tens of millions of Indians grew to rely solely on homeopathy for their healthcare. And, having imported homeopathy from the West, India then exported it back to the West in the 1970s. At a time when Western patients were looking to the East for alternative systems of medicine–such as acupuncture and Ayurvedic therapies–they also began to embrace homeopathy once again. It was considered by many Westerners to be an exotic, natural, holistic and individualized form of medicine, and an antidote to the corporate medicine being peddled by giant pharmaceutical corporations in Europe and America.

Meanwhile, Western scientists continued to scoff. There were a few scientific trials examining the benefits of homeopathy in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, but they were so flimsy that the results were unreliable. In short, there was still no sound evidence to support the idea that such ultra‑dilute solutions could act as meaningful medicines. Therefore scientists still considered it absurd that any medical system could be built upon this principle.

Scientists even began to poke fun at homeopaths. For example, because homeopathic liquid remedies are so dilute that they often contain only water, scientists would sarcastically endorse their use for the treatment of one particular medical condition, namely dehydration. Or they would jokingly offer to make each other a drink of homeopathic coffee, which was presumably incredibly diluted and yet tasted incredibly strong, because homeopaths believe that lower amounts of active ingredient are associated with greater potency. Similar logic also implied that a patient who forgot to take a homeopathic remedy might die of an overdose.

Homeopaths accepted that repeated dilution inevitably removes the presence of the active ingredient, and sure enough chemical analysis has always confirmed that ‘high‑potency’ homeopathic remedies are based on nothing more than pure water. Homeopaths were adamant, however, that this water was special because it had a memory of the active ingredient that it once contained. This caused the Australian Council Against Health Fraud to make fun of homeopathy by pointing out that this memory must be highly selective: ‘Strangely, the water offered as treatment does not remember the bladders it has been stored in, or the chemicals that may have come into contact with its molecules, or the other contents of the sewers it may have been in, or the cosmic radiation which has blasted through it.’

Then, in June 1988, the laughing suddenly stopped. Nature, arguably the most respected science journal in the world, published a research paper with the snappy title ‘Human basophil degranulation triggered by very dilute antiserum against IgE’. It took a little deciphering before non‑specialists could appreciate the significance of the paper, but very rapidly it became clear that here was a piece of research that seemed to back up some of the claims of homeopaths. If the paper was correct, then ultra‑dilute solutions that did not contain any active ingredient did indeed have an impact on biological systems. This could only be possible if the ingredient had left a memory of itself in the water. In turn, such a discovery would imply that homeopaths might have been right all along.

This piece of research, which has become the most famous experiment in the history of homeopathy, was conducted by a charismatic French scientist named Jacques Benveniste, a former racing driver who had taken up medical research after suffering a back injury. Although he published several important scientific papers on a variety of subjects during the course of his career, he would ultimately be remembered only for his Nature paper on homeopathy, which shocked the scientific establishment and made headlines around the world.

Benveniste’s controversial paper had surprisingly humble beginnings. The research began when one of his colleagues was looking at how basophils, a type of white blood cell, reacted to a particular allergen. This is akin to the allergic reaction that might be experienced when pollen hits the eye, but on a much smaller scale. Benveniste’s chosen allergen was supposed to be only mildly diluted, but the technician accidentally created a solution so dilute that it was devoid of the allergen. Nevertheless, the technician was stunned to find that the solution still had a significant impact on the basophils. Benveniste was equally astonished, so he asked for the unplanned ultra‑dilution experiment to be repeated. Again, the basophils seemed to react to an allergen that was no longer in the solution. Benveniste was not aware of homeopathy at the time, but it was not long before someone pointed out that his experiments were demonstrating the sorts of effects that homeopaths had been championing for two centuries. The results implied that water had some kind of memory of what it had previously contained, and that this memory could have a biological impact. It was such a weird conclusion that Benveniste later commented, ‘It was like shaking your car keys in the Seine at Paris and then discovering that water taken from the mouth of the river would start your car!’

The French team continued researching the idea of water memory for another two years. Throughout this period they achieved consistently positive results. For the first time ever, homeopaths could argue that here was scientific evidence to support the mechanisms underlying homeopathy.

Previously, supporters of homeopathy had been forced to rely on arguments that were far from convincing. For example, homeopaths would argue that homeopathy worked in a similar way to vaccination. Vaccination is also a treatment whereby tiny amounts of what causes an illness can be used to combat that illness. At first this seems persuasive, but there is a major difference between homeopathy and vaccination. The amounts of active ingredient used in vaccines might be tiny, perhaps just a few micrograms, but this is still vast compared to a homeopathic remedy. A vaccine contains billions of viruses or virus fragments, whereas most homeopathic remedies do not contain a single molecule of the active ingredient. The flawed analogy between vaccines and homeopathy has been promoted by homeopaths since the nineteenth century, when Oliver Wendell Holmes rebutted it by pointing out that it was akin to ‘arguing that a pebble may produce a mountain, because an acorn can become a forest’.

Having satisfied himself that his research findings were valid, Benveniste sent a paper describing his experiments to John Maddox, editor of Nature. Maddox duly had the paper refereed, which is a standard procedure that allows independent scientists to check any new results and discuss whether or not the research has been conducted properly. The experimental protocol seemed to be in order, but the claims in the paper were so extraordinary that Maddox took the step of adding a disclaimer alongside the published paper. The last time that Maddox had adopted this highly unusual approach was back in 1974, when he published a paper about Uri Geller’s supposed spoon‑bending powers. The disclaimer for Benveniste’s paper read: ‘Editorial reservation: Readers of this article may share the incredulity of the many referees…Nature has therefore arranged for independent investigators to observe repetitions of the experiments.’

In other words, Nature decided to publish Benveniste’s work, but with the caveat that the journal would re‑check the research by sending a team of experts to visit the French laboratory. The team was led by Maddox himself, and he was joined by Walter Stewart (a chemist) and James Randi (a magician). Randi’s inclusion raised some eyebrows, but he had an international reputation for debunking extraordinary claims and uncovering scientific fraud. To illustrate his attitude, Randi would often explain that if his neighbour claimed to have a goat in the garden then he would probably believe him, but if the neighbour said he had a unicorn then Randi would probably want to check how firmly its horn was attached. Randi had established himself as one of the world’s leading sceptics back in 1964, when he hit the headlines by offering a reward of $10,000 to anyone who could prove the existence of any paranormal phenomenon, which included therapies such as homeopathy that are contrary to the principles of science. The prize fund had steadily increased to $1 million by 1988, so if the team endorsed Benveniste’s result then it would lead to Randi writing out a very large cheque to the Frenchman.