The Aesthetics of Fascism: Same Old Mistakes

A Collection of Disjointed Thoughts on the Resurgence of Fascism

The past few months have been unusual—or at least, that’s what my absence from the Internet might suggest. I’ve distanced myself from the online discourse that claims to engage in politics and fight against the rise of the far-right but, in reality, remains complicit in maintaining the status quo. We continue to use the very platforms we criticize—platforms that are undeniably responsible for amplifying conservatism and fascist ideals—convincing ourselves that posting fan cams of Luigi Mangione will spark a leftist revolution while we prioritize virality over messaging. Unsurprisingly, these efforts are forgotten as soon as we jump to the next viral topic.

I am 27 years old, and all I remember is political and economic instability paired with a persistent sense of hopelessness for the future. I’ve spent this time wrestling with conflicting thoughts: pursuing what I love versus what I should do, weighed against what feels like a plausible, “intelligent” path forward. It hasn’t been easy.

Humanities are under attack worldwide, defunded and dismissed as mere entertainment—something to enjoy in your spare time but devoid of societal value. Meanwhile, STEM is heralded as the only worthwhile pursuit, the attention economy competes relentlessly for every moment of our waking hours, and the relentless push toward accumulation—of wealth, status, and conspicuous consumption—has become the unspoken mandate of modern existence. We have created a culture where many have forgotten their social position and believe that through the relentless support and emulation of their favourite celebrities and billionaires, they will become one of them.

The loss of interest in the humanities has led us to a new dark age, one governed by the rise of anti-intellectualism. Critical engagement with media is waning, and the refusal to acknowledge that politics permeates every facet of existence (yes, even if you are a straight, white, cisgender male) has become alarmingly common. Though unsurprising, this trend remains shocking. It leaves me feeling powerless and frustrated, watching as these changes escalate while many turn a blind eye to the inevitable consequence of our current trajectory.

Did we need to wait for Elon Musk to openly perform a Sieg Heil to confirm his role as a neofascist who wields dangerous control over media channels and has spent years manipulating information? And even when this happens, do we need to endure the same media outlets and other organizations insisting, a day later, that we have misinterpreted what we saw with our own eyes? How much longer can we ignore the reality that Musk and the rest of the tech-bros are orchestrating the politics behind Trump’s façade?

But this isn’t just an American problem—it concerns all of us. We must stop patronizing the American population, pretending as if the rest of the Western world isn’t witnessing the same patterns unfolding in our own countries. Take France, where I’ve lived for the past five years: why were neither the President nor the Prime Minister present at Trump’s inauguration, yet it was attended by leaders of the the country’s far-right? And I’m not talking about vague political leanings—I mean direct descendants of literal World War II Nazis.

Already in 1936, Walter Benjamin wrote in his epilogue to The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction that:

“Fascism seeks to organize the newly emergent proletarianized masses without touching the property relations that those masses are so urgently trying to abolish. Fascism sees its salvation in allowing the masses to find their voice (not, of course, to receive their due) […] Fascism seeks to give them a voice in retaining that structure unaltered. Fascism leads logically to an aestheticization of political life. The violation of the masses, which in a leader cult it forces to their knees, corresponds to the violation exercised by a film camera, which Fascism enlists in the service of producing cultic values.”

Trump and his allies have achieved what similarly fascistic movements have done in the past: appealing to the working class and lower-income groups by making them believe they share the same interests and class identity. Never mind that billionaire wealth grew by $2 trillion in 2024—equivalent to $5.7 billion per day—while the number of people living in poverty has remained largely unchanged since 1990, as reported by Oxfam. They have successfully crafted the illusion of possibility and the American Dream: you, too, can be like them (that is if you have access to the generational wealth built on imperialism and colonialism, which enabled their ancestor’s success in the first place).

They even offer the illusion of empowerment, giving you a sense of participation and expression through social media (aren’t they nice?): post your anger, but stay online. Do not take it to the streets. Do not organize in real life. Do not form actual communities of care. As long as you’re confined to the metaverse (literal or not), you can say anything you want. And we’re content with this arrangement, even if it means achieving no real justice, equality, or material gains.

Yes, they have given us a “voice,” but it’s one that ultimately serves fascism by reinforcing the existing system. Our discontent is channelled into controlled expressions, diverting energy away from genuine revolution or structural change. We have TikTok to post our rants, and that gives us the illusion of doing something against the system. But are we really? Have we achieved any meaningful change in recent years?

I’ll admit, I partake in these activities—I enjoy doomscrolling and everything else—but I also believe these tools should be used to further organize outside the Internet. The Internet has a short attention span and even shorter memory. Publishing political statements without accompanying real-life action is meaningless. I hope this becomes increasingly obvious as we witness the CEOs of these platforms (including Shou Zi Chew, who just one day prior, performed the hollow gesture of thanking “President Trump” for “working with them on a solution to reinstate TikTok [after its “ban”] once he’s in office”) bowing down to Trump.

Trump himself called January 20th 2025 “Liberation Day.” In a preliminary interview for Le Quotidien, a French political television show, his British ally Nigel Farage emphasized the significance of attending the day when “the leader of the free world is going to be sworn in.” These messages are far from casual. They evoke the historical propaganda of liberal democracies, particularly during the Cold War, spearheaded by the United States against the so-called “red scare.”

Such rhetoric should alarm anyone who recognizes the parallels with a not-so-distant past. And I do. I come from a country that endured a forty-year fascist dictatorship—a regime that devastated the nation and left wounds we are still struggling to heal. My grandparents lived through a civil war and its aftermath, fighting for their ideals and paying the price with imprisonment. My parents were born under the dictatorship, and even though Franco died a decade later, his influence still looms large today.

But fascism has always excelled at wielding media and propaganda to create an idealized, almost mythical image of the leader and the regime. Its allies understand how to appeal to the leader and consolidate their own power within the government. Take Mark Zuckerberg, for example, and his absurd embrace of hypermasculinity. Over the past year, Zuckerberg has undergone a deliberate image transformation—from tech “geek” to “manly man,” from perceived “loser” to respected businessman. This culminated in his interview with Joe Rogan, where he claimed that corporations have been “neutered” and need more “masculine energy.”

This is about more than pandering to a male audience. Zuckerberg’s message upholds traditional power structures to ensure the survival of a capitalist system. It reinforces binary thinking—male/female, self/Other, master/slave, etc.—and denies people’s rights to bodily autonomy, submitting them to those in power. It emboldens those who feel their societal status—illusory as it may have been—has eroded in the wake of social progress.

Fascism’s appeal is undeniable, and history shows us why. It turns politics into spectacle and performance, emphasizing grand symbols, rituals, and visuals: an endless stream of propaganda, parades, uniforms, and the appropriation and resignification of national values. This “aestheticization” appeals to emotions rather than reason, distracting from substantive political issues and solidifying authoritarian control.

This phenomenon extends far beyond Trump. We’ve seen it with Javier Milei in Argentina, who is infamous for his chainsaw-wielding performances—and is now the country’s president. What once seemed laughable from the left’s position of moral superiority has become a reality: leftist movements have failed, and the new fascist regimes are taking power.

Propaganda thrives in the society of the spectacle we inhabit today. With an endless stream of emotionally charged images at our fingertips, critical thinking often takes a backseat. Fact-checkers feel obsolete when the Internet constantly dictates what to think and how to act. We are led to believe we are part of an elite, even while struggling to make ends meet. Yet this illusion is by design. The “cultic” production of these images dehumanizes the masses, reducing us to passive spectators of the spectacle rather than active participants in shaping society.

In his 1967 The Society of Spectacle, Guy Debord writes: “As part of society, [the spectacle] is that sector where all attention, all consciousness, converges. Being isolated—and precisely for that reason—this sector is the locus of illusion and false consciousness; the unity it imposes is merely the official language of generalized separation.” He adds, “Understood in its totality, the spectacle is both the outcome and the goal of the dominant mode of production. It is not something added to the real world (…) [T]he spectacle epitomizes the prevailing model of social life. It is the onmipresent celebration of a choice already made in the sphere of production, and the consummate result of that choice. In form as in content the spectacle serves as total justification for the conditions and aims of the existing system.” Most importantly, he argues that the spectacle “governs almost all time spent outside the production process itself.”

What Debord describes is a distorted view of reality created by media, alienating us from our true social and material conditions. Trump supporters, for example, believe that by embracing his apparent values, they too can rise to the level of their leader. They accept the fabricated enemies of their political party—immigrants, women, people of color, LGBTQ+ individuals or the so-called “the woke”—without recognizing these as deliberate distractions. These enemies, though powerful in their emotional resonance, divert attention from the supporters’ actual struggles.

Meanwhile, leftists may fall into what Mark Fisher describes as “interpassivity,” a phenomenon where consuming political analyses or witnessing protests via social media gives the illusion of active participation. By observing others’ efforts, they feel as though they, too, are contributing, which in turn fosters passivity. If someone else is already doing the work, why should they act themselves?

Importantly, the spectacle is not separate from reality; it is the dominant reality. It shapes how people live and relate to one another under capitalism, organizing experiences and interactions through the logic of commodification. It renders us incapable of meaningful action. And so far, it is working. As Debord notes, even beyond our working hours, our leisure time is colonized by the spectacle—whether through traditional media like television or modern platforms like social media. These platforms reinforce the values and logic of the capitalist system, leaving little room for authentic autonomy or meaningful critical reflection.

In the words of Benjamin: “This is how things are, given the kind of aestheticization of politics that Fascism pursues. Communism’s reply is to politicize art.” We must politicize our presence on social media: delete your Meta and X accounts, hold TikTok accountable for its actions, politicize the content you create on BookTok (because reading is political, regardless of what some creators may say), politicize conversations with your friends and family members, politicize every sphere of life in the wake of fascist governments across the world. But remain hopeful. Be hopeful for the future, or rather, actively choose not to be hopeless. Hope, as Byung-Chul Han beautifully articulates, lives in the future but “creates a narrative that guides action” in the present. Whether through community building, fostering critical engagement, or reclaiming our shared spaces for genuine dialogue and activism, we must resist the spectacle’s domination and its aestheticized forms of control. To do so, we must rebuild collective efforts grounded in care, community, and justice—not in isolation and individualism.