What is Fascism? An Exploration of the Fascist Heart

For some time now, whenever I encounter the word “Fascism” my brain enters into a kind of fog. I recognize it as a historical term describing the political machinery of Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy. I, like you, have witnessed the disruptive and frankly anarchistic protests of the group calling itself “Antifa,” for “anti-Fascist.” And in my circles I see the word deployed frequently in description of Donald Trump and his policies. I find little commonality between these diverse definitions, and in view of that I find myself in striking agreement with George Orwell, who writes in his famous essay “Politics and the English Language” that “The word Fascism has now no meaning except in so far as it signifies ‘something not desirable’.” A political thing we don’t like is Fascist. Case closed.

But Fascism seems to me too important a term to surrender it to the impulses of cultural laziness. The word means something, and it identifies something, and I think it’s worth taking a moment to try and articulate what that thing is. Having spent some time doing just that, I’ve come to believe that Fascism is not one, but two things: it is a philosophy of government, and it is a political culture among the governed. In other words, while some political figures may espouse “Fascist” ideas, they cannot succeed in implementing them unless there is also a desire for the solutions Fascism offers among the people. It takes two to tango.

I began by looking up a definition on Wikipedia. There, I found validation for my confusion. The primary definition offered is as follows, “Fascism is a far-right, authoritarian, and ultranationalist political ideology and movement.” The entry describes further signal features: a dictator, militarism, suppression of opposition, etc. Fair enough. Fascism involves a certain view of political power and how it should be utilized in governance. But following this, the article shifts into a subsection simply titled “definitions.” What follows are thirteen different explanations of what Fascism might be, and the sheer existence of so many definitions points to the fact that many people are struggling to articulate just what Fascism might be. Perhaps my confusion is warranted. Perhaps, also, Orwell’s assessment provides an ironically unifying factor for each definition. Fascism is bad and we don’t like it (therefore people we don’t like are Fascists!).

In the main, I think the primary Wikipedia definition is serviceable—insofar as it describes the key features of historic governments that have been described as Fascist. But I think it misses something critical, and that is that Fascism espouses a certain view of power, and that what Fascism believes about the nature of power may be its most important feature. Let’s pause for a lesson in etymology. The word Fascism draws from an ancient Latin concept called the “fasces.” Fasces were a bundle of sticks, sometimes containing an axe. The bundle in Roman times came to symbolize Roman political power and authority—the authority to execute justice. The symbology is very old, and very common; it even appears on the walls of the United States House of Representatives. When Mussolini was governing Italy, he consciously drew from Roman imagery in his establishment of power. Hence, the use of fasces, providing an image and basis from which we draw our modern concepts of Fascism.

In simplest terms, Fascism is a concept of political governance that prioritizes the authority and power of the central government. To render this in what might be an effective political slogan, Fascism believes that “Power gets it done.” Give me power, and I’ll get it done. Give the leader power, and he’ll get it done. Give the government the power, and they’ll get it done. In fact, the only thing standing between these agencies and the solution to whatever problems we face at the time is that we haven’t yet given them the power. The rise of 20th Century Fascist governments illustrates this helpfully. The problems faced in prewar Germany are economic depression (in part because of Versailles), political disgrace (because of the post-WWI situation), and disunity. Give me power, says Hitler, and I’ll fix these problems. What stands in the way of fixing these problems? The bureaucracy of government (Reichstag), foreign interference (Versailles), “artificial” borders (Sudetenland/Austria), and our own sense of inadequacy (we used to be great). Supercharging each of these blocks to power is the use of the Jews as a scapegoat. In other words, in the face of these highly notional and immaterial problems, each of which contributes to a vague but real felt need, there is the impressive power of localizing these problems on people you can see. By focusing on the Jews as an “other” in the midst of German political life, Hitler stoked the frustrations of political decline into an anger at particularized people. He was phenomenally successful, and the people of Germany enabled his rise to power. They believed his message, agreed with his assessment, and authorized him to use the power he accumulated to “get things done.” A Fascist leader sang to the Fascist Heart of the people, and the tango commenced with horrifying consequences.

It is good to pause here and clarify some things. First, simply because Fascism is authoritarian does not mean that any authority is Fascist. This is the absurdity of the rhetoric of “Antifa”, who are more interested in anarchy and grandstanding than any real political reform. Second, it does not follow that all expressions of governmental power are Fascist, especially because we don’t like them. Governments have power. Governments use their power. And it is rare that governments always use their power in ways that are just and good. Even those just and good uses of power will feel painful to people who dislike those policies. It does not follow that, because I dislike a governmental policy, that the government is Fascist.

How, then, can we separate the vague accusations of “Fascism” for things we don’t like, from an actual situation of Fascism? I think that here is where it becomes important to acknowledge the other half of Fascism, and I would argue that the fuller understanding of Fascism emerges when we explore the psychology of a society that enables it. A Fascist national government is not solely an assembly of Fascist leaders with a desire for Fascist-style powers: it is also composed of a people who authorize that Fascism.

On my read of the matter, there appear to be four significant features of what I am calling the “Fascist Heart,” four features of a society that enable, empower, and provide the conditions of growth for a Fascist government. There may well be more than four, but these four stand out to me. They are: 1) a belief in our glorious past; 2) a conviction that the present is corrupt; 3) lack of confidence in current government to address the problems; and 4) the presence of an identifiable sub-population who can serve as a cultural scapegoat. I want to take a moment to explore each of these.

First, a component that seems present in all Fascist-authorizing societies is a belief in a glorious past. Now, there are many ways that we can love the past—in the main, it is a perfectly normal human emotion, exemplified by the appeal of so-called “Golden Ages.” (Personally, I find in myself a desire for what I consider to be a golden age of Christian thought and publishing—the early to mid 20th century.) But this quite natural love easily morphs into a preference for the past to the present, or even to the belief that the past is and was always superior to the present. This belief is false. As Orwell writes (reflecting on impulses in Yeats’s thought), “...all praise of the past is partly sentimental, because we do not live in the past.” When the sentiment of praising the past overrides the obligation to living faithfully in the present, something has gone amiss. This is where Fascism can step in, because the rhetoric of Fascism, speaking to the commonplace desires of the ordinary citizen, promises to get back to this past. “The past,” it claims, “was indeed better, and if you give me the power I can make it like it was again.” Mussolini therefore appeals to the greatness of the Roman Empire, Hitler to the pride of Germanic (‘Aryan’) peoples. In each case, Fascism strikes at a natural, even universal, heart-string, and it is this metric that is at play when Orwell writes that “...though Fascism does not offer any real return to the past, those who yearn for the past will accept Fascism sooner than its probable alternatives.”

Second, a parallel component to the belief in a glorious past is the conviction of a dire corruption in the present. The world is bad. Our economy is bad. Inflation is high. Crime is up. Respect for the law is low. Corruption is rampant. There are wars, and rumours of wars, and earthquakes, and global tragedies. This belief in a corrupted present dovetails with the belief in a glorious past. The power of sentiment overrides judgment, and the present can even feel worse when compared to the nostalgic memory of “how things used to be.” Back when children obeyed their parents, and played outside, and when men knew how to be men, and work was work, and the government was trustworthy. It doesn’t take many honest facts to pop the balloon of this sentimentalism, and yet many people show themselves to be quite adept at ignoring those facts. It wasn’t that long ago that women didn’t have the right to vote; that it was legal to discriminate against people based on the colour of their skin; that it was legal to own people; that it was possible to die or be crippled for life from a disease like polio; that most of our men were sent to fight wars in which we did not know the outcome. These feelings about the dire situation of the world are, like the feelings for a better past, rooted in something real. The world is broken. Terrible things happen on a daily—hourly—basis, and I find in myself no patience for those delusional optimists who believe the world is getting better and better. But I also do not believe that it is getting worse. It’s just as a bad as it’s always been. The only material difference I detect is that the presence of information technology makes us capable of consuming a steady, unbroken diet of the horrors of the world. The world is no worse than it has ever been, but we are now consuming all of its vices almost constantly.

Fascism finds special traction in a society that believes the world is a horrible place. Within such a set of beliefs, Fascism postures itself as a truth-telling enterprise because it dares to speak openly about these problems in the world, and the unique power of Fascist rhetoric is that it highlights these wicked events, stoking our collective sense of frustration at the shortcomings of our world, offering an interpretation of reality that feels plausible. And yet Fascism is not neutral: it selectively choses which harms to identify, neglecting elements that “don’t fit the narrative,” and then exaggerates the harms for its own benefit. Fascism correctly latches onto the helplessness that ordinary people feel in the face of these widespread evils, the shadowy machinations of powers and principalities. In this respect, Fascism appeals to the truth—or, at the least, aligns itself with a form of the truth convenient to its purposes (gaining power). A parallel rhetoric of Fascism communicates a conviction that other people are lying, and this manifests in Fascist efforts to criticize the press, who often criticize the Fascist narrative. If you believe that the world is wicked, and the Fascist rhetoric agrees with you, then you are inclined to believe that the Fascist is “Telling it like it is.” This situation can be further charged by a reality of the human heart: nobody likes to be deceived (to feel that they are being lied to), and almost everybody likes to feel that they are in the know (I know what’s really going on). Fascism works the lever of this commonplace emotion in the human heart.

Third, Fascism readily plants itself in a society when there is a lack of confidence in the existing government to address these problems. In a way this should be obvious—if the current government were effectively addressing societies problems (or, at least, giving the appearance of addressing those problems), then there would be little warrant for the Fascist to argue that giving him power is necessary to get things done. The reasons why a people come to distrust their government are as varied as people and governments, but it seems that often it comes down to a few key categories: excessive bureaucracy (making it impossible to get things done), excessive graft and corruption (making it impossible to get things done), and a sense that the government no longer represents the people (whatever they are getting done is not what we need done). For the ordinary citizen, the belief that our governing officials are corrupt bureaucrats who serve their own interests is, in all probability, always at least partly true. Every government on earth, throughout all time, has had such elements embedded in its function. What is different about the power of Fascism is that this belief becomes generalized. In a way, that sense that the world is a bad place becomes focused on the overweening corruption of government. So Fascism speaks to the desire for change, the necessity—if necessary—of throwing out the old government to make room for real change, change that matters. Once again, this is a deeply human, quite natural emotional response. We find in ourselves a desire for good government. Orwell calls this a “dream,” writing that “It is the dream of a just society which seems to haunt the human imagination ineradicably and in all ages, whether it is called the Kingdom of Heaven or the classless society, or whether it is thought of as a Golden Age which once existed in the past and from which we have degenerated.” Fascism makes promises which touch on the heart of this dream. Sacrifice for me, and I’ll give you something better. What is sacrificed, of course, is the present government, perhaps some civil liberties, even some cherished freedoms, possibly some people along the way. As the ironic statement goes, “If some people have to lose their lives for the new society, then that’s a price I’m willing to pay.” It is ironic because the person making the statement is never the one who pays that price. As soon as Fascism makes use of that power for which it so desperately longs, problems enter. As Orwell writes, summarizing another author’s work, “You can achieve nothing unless you are willing to use force and cunning, but in using them you pervert your original aims.” The force and cunning of the Fascist system inevitably and at all times corrupts the aims it sets. Fascism cannot honour its promises.

Fourth, Fascism is supercharged by the presence of an identifiable sub-group within the population, who can serve as a scapegoat. All three of the previous categories of concern are widespread but not particular. You can feel, generally, that the world used to be better, that the world today is corrupt, and that government is hopelessly inept. What is more, you may have specific examples in mind whether from personal experience or the news you have consumed. But each of these are fundamentally notional concepts, generalizations, and they will remain generalizations unless they can be particularized. Fascism particularizes this generalized anger by attaching it to a sub-group within society. As with each of the previous concepts, this one is also rooted in something natural in the human psyche. We like homogeneity. We like sameness. We prefer what is known and predictable to what is unknown and unpredictable. In all likelihood this traces back to our earliest days as a species, when we privileged known insiders over unknown outsiders, and history is replete with accounts of the distrust of outsiders—from foreign devils to local Jews. This is the place where concepts of “Nationalism” emerge from the Fascist psyche. In his essay “Notes on Nationalism,” Orwell argues (perhaps unconvincingly) that Patriotism is essentially a wholesome emotion, while Nationalism is a more wicked set of collectivizing notions. It is natural, in other words, to feel love of country, it is a distortion to begin to class people into set categorizations which define them. Here we approach the power of “us” as it is amplified by the identification of a “them.” Literary scholar Edward Said calls this process “othering.” It is the process where by I identify an “other” (an outsider), primarily as a means of strengthening my sense of self. I use the outsider as a negative foil to assert my own, special identity. If Said and Orwell are correct, then what is at the heart of Nationalism is not a set of patriotic beliefs, but an operative metric of “us” and “them” that uses “them” to privilege “us.” The blaming of the Jews for the ills experienced in pre-war Nazi Germany is an obvious, chilling example of this metric. Facing the generalized problems (economic, political, social), Hitler successfully located in the Jews an identifiable scapegoat for these problems. They became a focal point for the anger of society, and their “them” status helpfully strengthened the “us” of German superiority. In this way, Fascism appeals to the innate human desire to belong to something by focusing attention on a group of “outsiders” who can be made not to belong.

So, what is Fascism? It is not really a model of governance. Instead, Fascism identifies a cultural state where high level figures bargain with society for a pact of power. Give us power, and we’ll get things done. The bargain plays upon a series of common emotions in the human heart: the feeling of a lost past, the grim realities of the present, the incompetence of current government. Fascism promises to solve these unsolvable problems through the application of special power which must be granted to it by a constituency. These generalized feelings of societal distress are, in turn, localized on a sub-group who can act as a focal point or scapegoat for the problems. Fascism thus comes to life when a Fascist leader sings his song to the Fascist Heart—a heart that is, to be explicit, present in all of us—and the Fascist Heart in turn gives power to that leader.

Three closing comments are in order.

First, Donald Trump may or may not be a Fascist. His rhetoric certainly, at times, aligns with the parameters I see in Fascism. The language of “Make America Great Again” sings to the feeling of a lost past. The sloganeering of “Fake News” highlights the sense that he is telling the truth while everyone else is lying about the world. The appeal to “Drain the Swamp” accents the generalized feeling of incompetence with current US governance. And the calls to “Deport Immigrants” identify a localized “other” who can take the blame for these particular ills. And yet, it is not difficult to reason out that Trump’s interest in the presidency is centred more on the possession of power than any sincere plan to alter the American political landscape. He likes the spotlight. His political positions change depending on how much power he thinks he can gain at a given moment. Whether or not Trump is Fascist is in some senses irrelevant. It is far more important to note that something in his rhetoric distinctively appeals to many people in America. In a way, they concern me more than he. There appears to be such a sea of generalized discontent that it has become plausible to imagine that the best solution, the best way forward for American Democracy, is effectively to suspend that democracy. Donald Trump may or may not be Fascist; a startling number of Americans, apparently, are.

Second, Christians appear to be uniquely susceptible to the state of supporting Fascism. This is especially troubling to me, speaking as a Christian myself, but it doesn’t take long to discover that many of the features of the Fascist Heart are also present in Christian theology more generally. The first, that of a lost, glorious past, should not be something Christians believe—our hope is anchored on a renewed future. And yet in the wake of Christendom’s demise it can feel, as Christians, like we’ve lost something important—our sense of influence, of cultural value, and respect. When you factor in the feelings of American exceptionalism and the belief that America was founded as a “Christian nation,” these factors come to make even more sense. “We used to be a great country, when we were Christian—if only we could get back to that.” Thus, the Christian hope for the future is subverted by political aims in the present. The second factor, that the world is a rotten place, is soundly upheld by Christian theology. Sin is and will remain an ever-present component of the human experience until Christ returns. But for many Christians there is a parallel belief, tied to beliefs about the end of the world, that things are going to get worse and worse before Christ’s return. Suffice it to say, this interpretation of Christian theology is a point of disagreement for theologians, but it has special traction in a form of belief popular in American churches called Dispensationalism. Many American Christians believe the world is getting worse and worse, and this is a prelude to Christ’s glorious return. Thirdly, the belief in incompetent government, is bound pretty tightly to the concept of America as a “Christian nation.” If America is and should be Christian, then American government should be run by Christians, with Christian values, who enact Christian policies. The lack of such policies, and the necessity of compromise in a complex multicultural and multireligious environment, accentuates the feeling that America has lost its way. Lastly, each of these problems can be localized, fixated, on the immigrant—the pedophile, rapist, criminal, drug-dealing, job-stealing, illegal, resource-hogging Mexican next door. This is the least-Christian aspect of a widespread Christian psyche. Then again, our whole religion is based on the idea of one man paying a price so that the rest of us could live. The scapegoat is at the heart of Christianity. Perhaps you, like me, have wondered at why it was that a largely Christian Germany came to support a godless regime like Nazism—then perhaps these factors provide a compelling explanation.

Third, I have relied significantly on Orwell in this discourse because I find him helpful. He offers a few final comments that I think are important. The first, and I have tried to make this explicit throughout, is that the impulses to Fascism (or Nationalism, as the case may be) are present in every human heart. There is not some bevy of demonic, power-hungry, delusional people in America who are secretly plotting Fascist overthrow of the government. Instead, there are a sea of ordinary people—just like you and me—whose hearts are being spoken to (and, I argue, subverted) by promises of power. And power is an intoxicating thing. Orwell’s second warning stems from the first, and has to do with the use of power. After describing the Nationalist tendency to deny facts, he writes: “There is no need to multiply instances. The point is that as soon as fear, hatred, jealousy and power worship are involved, the sense of reality becomes unhinged. And, as I have pointed out already, the sense of right and wrong becomes unhinged also. There is no crime, absolutely none, that cannot be condoned when ‘our’ side commits it. Even if one does not deny that the crime has happened, even if one knows that it is exactly the same crime as one has condemned in some other case, even if one admits in an intellectual sense that it is unjustified—still one cannot feel that it is wrong. Loyalty is involved, and so pity ceases to function.”

I offer no solutions to the problems presented by what I have described as the Fascist Heart, because my intention has been descriptive rather than prescriptive. I can only hope that greater clarity about the nature of the Fascist phenomenon can assist us to be on guard against its allure, wise to the appeal—and fundamental untrustworthy uses—of political power.