The rise of far-right ideologies in everyday culture is alarming and often invisible, seeping into our lives through seemingly harmless channels. Imagine two men, ski masks hiding their faces, Nazi symbols emblazoned on their shirts, laughing as they cook vegan meals in a YouTube video. This wasn't a dystopian fiction; it was a real series called Balaclava Kitchen, which ran for months before being taken down. But it's a chilling example of how the far right is infiltrating our cultural landscape, from music and fashion to social media trends, normalizing their beliefs in ways that are both subtle and insidious.
And this is the part most people miss: it's not just about explicit hate speech anymore. Researchers like Katherine Kondor from the Norwegian Center for Holocaust and Minority Studies are sounding the alarm. “It’s terrifying,” she says, “You can be radicalized without even leaving your couch.” Kondor, leading a six-country study with the Center for Research on Extremism (C-REX), has found that far-right groups are using aesthetics—fitness influencers, memes, even food delivery services—to spread their message across Europe. From Sweden to Spain, extremist ideas are woven into the fabric of daily life, both online and off.
Take Hungary, for instance, where far-right bands are topping the charts. “What’s more normal than being on the top 40?” Kondor asks. Or consider the rise of “tradwives,” women on TikTok and other platforms romanticizing traditional gender roles. While their content may seem innocuous, it often stems from far-right ideologies, promoting anti-feminism and a nostalgia for a mythical past. As these ideas gain traction, their extremist roots become obscured, making them even more dangerous.
But here's where it gets controversial: Are these cultural elements merely gateways, or are they deliberate tools of radicalization? Kondor argues that many people aren’t drawn to the far right because of its ideology but because of the subcultures it creates. A catchy song, a trendy fashion brand, or a relatable influencer can be the first step down a dangerous path. “They start with something they like—a band, a meme—and before they know it, they’re part of something much bigger,” she explains. Even something as mundane as ordering food could unknowingly support far-right causes, as seen with a group in the Netherlands that runs a food delivery service.
Greta Jasser, a researcher at Germany’s Institute for Democracy and Civil Society, points out that technology has supercharged this process. With generative AI, creating extremist content is faster and easier than ever. “The playbook is old,” she says, “but the speed is unprecedented.” Social media algorithms, driven by profit, amplify this content, blurring the lines between genuine belief and revenue generation. Is that far-right meme shared by a bot or a true believer? It’s increasingly hard to tell.
Here’s the burning question: How do we recognize and combat this stealthy infiltration? Kondor and her team are exploring ways to educate the public, from online tools to awareness campaigns. “It’s shocking how pervasive this is,” she says. “With the far right on the rise across society, understanding and mitigating this trend is more critical than ever.”
What do you think? Is the far right’s use of culture a clever strategy or a dangerous manipulation? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep this conversation going.
