Decoding Gordon

There may not have been a contest but Gordon Brown still spent six weeks campaignin

So here's my Gordon Brown story. It's 2004 and I'm in a lift at 30 St Mary Axe, better known to Londoners as "the Gherkin". The Gherkin is the year's big new thing on the skyline and I'm about to be shot up to the glass glans on the 40th floor, where the editor of the Guardian is holding a summer party. It's like being one of the sperm in Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask. I'm standing next to the artists Francis Upritchard and Grayson Perry, who is looking fetching in a hot pink PVC Alice dress with black lace trim. Wait a moment, he says. Someone else wants to get in. Accompanied by an aide, Brown steps into the lift, looks at us for the briefest of moments, jams his tongue into his cheek, then stares fixedly at a point somewhere near the ceiling. The doors close.

I pass the next 30 seconds in a kind of private ecstasy as I implore providence to grant me a short conversation between the Iron Chancellor and the Turner prize-winning transvestite potter. What I'm after is something along the lines of:

"Nice frock, Grayson."

"Thanks, Gordon. Nice economic policy, by the way."

"Glad you like it." etc.

Doesn't happen. As befits a professional politician, Brown breaks the ice, but somehow, for 39 floors, no one knows what to say to him. "I wonder who owns this place?" he asks. It's not obvious who he's talking to: he's still looking at the ceiling. He may be thinking aloud. I can't work out if he means:

a) He doesn't know (unlikely);

b) He just can't remember right at this minute. (Should I remind him? Is that the aide's job?);

c) He's panicked by Grayson's outfit (not unheard of); or,

d) He's making some kind of incredibly left-field joke.

Confused, I decide it'd be easiest to pretend I didn't hear him. Franny and Grayson seem to have come to the same conclusion. When we get to the top and the doors open, everyone, including the Chancellor, seems relieved. I drink several Bellinis in quick succession. The party has an unsettled, apocalyptic tone. Politicians and commentators stalk each other over the canapés. The experience of being 180 metres up in the air inside a glass cone with a 360-degree view of London is giddying. For as long as Brown is in attendance, a helicopter flies tight circles around us, the noise of its rotors penetrating our glass sheath in great dull waves of sound. I catch several people nervously scanning the horizon. I realise they're looking for planes.

Glasgow Labour Party hustings, 3 June 2007

It's a cloak and dagger business, following the hustings. I've flown to Scotland without knowing exactly where I'm going, or when I'm supposed to be there. At the airport, I get a text with the details. When I arrive in Candleriggs, it seems the security provisions haven't prevented 50 or so protesters from setting up outside the hall. There are banners for NO2ID, the Stop the War Coalition, a local anti-Trident campaign and the disabled workers of Remploy. Inside, several hundred Labour members have gathered to hear the message of their crown prince, then watch a debate between the various deputy leadership contenders, whose campaign materials are silting up on a table by the entrance.

Against a backdrop featuring a Union Jack and some smiling children, Brown works the floor. Hello, how are you, good to see you, how are you doing. He shakes hands and grins his strange grin, that 100-watt smile which isn't matched by his hooded eyes. For the first time I'm properly aware of the difficulties partial-sightedness must present to a politician. Imagine Tony Blair's "trust me" routine without the dewy-eyed grimace or the noble gaze into the distance. Brown looks much better than he did in the lift, when his skin was powdery white, giving him the appearance of a sleep- deprived ghost. Today, he appears fit, confident. Suddenly he's standing in front of me.

"So this is the press side, is it? Now I know where not to take questions from, ha ha ha."

He has an odd staccato laugh, which arrives in sudden triplet bursts. It's rich in tone, simultaneously warm and cold, just like the smile. On the platform, he invokes Scottish Labour's recent dead - John Smith, Robin Cook and Donald Dewar - and reveals that he "believes in the values of the Labour Party" - a phrase I'll hear a lot in the next couple of weeks. I think it's political code for "I am not Tony Blair". I whisper snippets of translation to a Japanese journalist sitting next to me, who's struggling to follow. In the interval after Brown's speech, I try to explain the cultural differences between "old" and "new" Labour, but we get stuck on the connotation of "beer and sandwiches".

Brown talks about consultation and carbon-free living. He talks about solidarity and common purpose, about the balance between security and civil liberties. He really gets going when he turns to global poverty, conjuring a vision of a world where the 80 million children who don't attend school are given an education. We could be the first generation to achieve that, he says. He doesn't tell us how, or to what extent he thinks it's in his power to bring about as prime minister. But it sounds great, like one of those old-fashioned documentaries where they say that in the year 2525 we'll all be living in space and getting our nutrition in pill form: 80 million developing world school places probably cost about the same as a couple of nuclear subs or a year's small ground war, so let's assume we've got the cash, but money's surely the least of the obstacles in Brown's way. To take him seriously, I'd have to imagine that the man's planning to reform the entire global economic system, and then he'd have to go and stand outside Rupert Murdoch's office and there'd be no cabin at Camp David and no room in the hot tub at Davos and, oh, all sorts of hideous consequences. But, if I wrestle my cynicism to the floor, I can agree that it's nice to share an aspiration and there are worse things you could hear from the mouth of your country's next leader.

Here's a partial taxonomy of Gordon Brown's hand gestures: the karate chop into the palm, the double grip, the titty-tickle, the pull-towards, the inverted squeeze, the precision finger and thumb, the grasp and tug, and its twin variants, the grasp and flip and the grasp and sweep. When Brown talks about community involvement, or the battle of hearts and minds, he draws his hands inwards to a central position on his dark-suited person. When deporting a terrorist or wiping away disease, he removes the object in a full-arm rugby pass, jettisoning it into the outer darkness of the hall. Oddly, the gesture he uses most frequently, today at least, is Blair's signature thumbs-up barrier, the backs of the hands presented to the audience, their negativity defused by the perky raised digits. As we know from watching Blair and Rory Bremner, the barrier can be extended (when "pushing the envelope" or describing the positive progress of foreign wars), drawn in (to secure borders, or indicate personal involvement), or allowed to remain resolutely static, impregnable to naysayers, Tories and those who fail to meet their performance targets.

Brown's just getting stuck into a lurid description of today's souped-up hyper-terrorist, who's using 20 mobile phones and 30 identities, dreaming of atrocities while moving money around faster than a carousel fraudster, a character whose existential complexity is so mind-bogglingly Matrix-like that it would require 90 days even to establish his identity, let alone find out if he'd done anything, let alone find out if he was about to do anything, when a sinister disembodied voice intones a warning over the PA. "This is an emergency," it says. "Please leave by the nearest exit." It sounds as if the war on terror has come to Glasgow. We comply with alacrity. A guy in the row in front of me leaves so quickly that he drops his passport on his chair.

It turns out to be a fire alarm. A lot of people don't go back in for the deputies debate. I last about halfway through. Peter Hain looks tanned and bug-eyed, like a holidaymaker staring at an oncoming train. Hilary Benn talks in a London drawl about "puddy members".

Jon Cruddas is humble, Hazel Blears pugnacious. "The liberal left paint me as a hammer of the right," she says, her eyes blazing as if she relishes being upgraded from a mere mallet or gavel. "But," she reveals, "I'm not. I'm a nice person." I slip out and eat a dosa at a south Indian place across the road. "So, you been in there?" asks the waiter, looking at the party photo-op taking place outside the hall. "You'll be wanting a beer, then."

Islam and Muslims in the world, London 4 June 2007

No beer here. Strictly orange juice and halal canapés, because it's time for fence-mending, bridge-building and other such remedial measures. I'm in the grand surroundings of Lancaster House, a massive Georgian mansion coated in marble and gilt, its walls decorated with neoclassical frescoes. The occasion is a conference of global Muslim leaders called by the Cambridge University Interfaith Programme. This morning, Tony Blair opened proceedings by promis- ing £1m for training imams. Tomorrow, David Cameron will be talking about pluralism and Ruth Kelly will attempt, unsuccessfully, not to mention veils and crosses. Even Prince Charles has taped a message, which is nice.

Certain vocal British Muslims are grumbling that they've not been invited (they say it's because of their anti-war views, others say it's because they've already been invited to lots of junkets and some Muslims are still terrorists, which by definition means they haven't delivered, so what do they expect, subsidised fun for ever?), but no one seems to be letting this dampen their mood. Eastern European waitresses stand to attention with trays as the day's last plenary finishes. I sit on a chaise longue and watch them come down the stairs, the Grand Mufti of Cairo, the prime minister of Pakistan, the Bishop of London, professors and special advisers and community leaders, sober suits mingling with dishdashes, dashikis, beards abundant, headwear in velvet and astrakhan, cotton prayer caps and silk scarves. There's an air of bonhomie and conviviality. It has evidently been a good day.

Gordon Brown is hosting this reception. He arrives in a car, sweeps straight up to the podium and delivers a short history lesson, telling a couple of anecdotes about the house and reminding us that it was the venue for talks about the decolonisation of Rhodesia and debt-relief negotiations before the Gleneagles G8 summit.

He claims that "there's no more important dialogue than the dialogue we've had today" (I imagine his use of the first person plural is rhetorical, since he's only just turned up) and throws in a quick statistic. Apparently this year there will be "250 interfaith or multifaith dialogues, covering the whole country". This will, apparently, be "50 up on last year". I have no idea what he means, but it sounds very now, very knowledge economy. Production of dialogue is exceeding the levels set in the five-year plan. We are truly a nation of conference-attendees.

Brown is treated like a rock star. Though he's impatient to get away, he's detained by a press of people who want to shake his hand. Great work, he says to them all, you're doing great work here. People jostle one another, vying for his attention. One elderly man, with the tribal scars and floor-length robe of a cleric from the Sahel belt of West Africa, is almost felled by a stray elbow as he works his way in for a brief squeeze and a word of thanks. He comes away, his face radiant.

"Unions Together", Labour Party London hustings, 6 June

I'm at Congress House, TUC headquarters, and as the junior Labour press officer who took my call this morning reluctantly revealed, the meeting's starting "after two", or about six in the evening, information someone has also made available to the 100 or so Stop the War activists making a noise on the steps. I shouldn't moan. No one ever got far in the media operation by indulging in loose talk. The guys running these hustings events look slightly shell-shocked. They have every right to their fatigue, since they've done another of these things in Newcastle since I saw them in Scotland three days ago. They walk about, buzzing with tension, conferring with one another and receiving messages from the Borg Queen through their headsets. It must be a strange bubble, this road-show. The banners and shouting outside, the sepulchral calm of the lobby. When I make the mistake of suggesting that Brown dodged a question in Glasgow, my interlocutor looks pained, touches his hand to his ear and moves away.

They tend towards a type, these young men. It's not that I think the organisation lacks diversity; it's more that it appears to have generated its own subculture. You could be into Nu-Rave, you could be a Young Farmer. Or you could don a red-ribboned security pass and try to get ahead in Gordon Brown's new Labour. You need a sober suit and a big primary-coloured tie. Polenta is out, pub and match are in, so you'll need to get the hair and shoes right. No gel, no fancy stylings. Nothing estate-agentish or flash. Good thick soles are a plus.

As a treat, they allow me backstage. Brown gets his own room, with a selection of sandwiches. His rider includes three scented aromatherapy candles, fresh hand towels, tequila and a bowl of M&Ms with the blue ones taken out. All right, it doesn't. But he's still better off than the flock of would-be deputies, who share a single room. Elsewhere, the organisers are sifting through a list of audience questions. "Is there anything on Iraq?" someone wonders, anxiously. There isn't. "Maybe you could raise it?" they ask the chairman, the New Statesman's Martin Bright. "We don't want it to look like we're stage-managing Iraq out of this." Another questioner is given the thumbs up because "she's a black woman". Welcome to the theatre of inclusivity, the simulacrum of debate.

In the hall, TUC members chew gum and wait for Brown, listening to piped Nineties chill-out music, the kind that's put out by Ibiza mega-clubs, packaged with a picture of a girl in a bikini. Along the row from me sits a tiny frail-looking old man with an extraordinary profile, a full beard and a round bald head. He looks like the ghost of Keir Hardie.

Brown isn't as fluent as in Glasgow. I notice he's recycling his material. There's the joke about Nixon gladhanding the crowd at the independence celebrations of Ghana:

Nixon: What's it like to be free?

Man in crowd: How should I know? I'm from Alabama.

There's the one about Ronald Reagan being prepped for a meeting with Olof Palme, the prime minister of Sweden:

Reagan: Isn't he a communist?

Aide: No sir, he's an anti-communist.

Reagan: I don't care what kind of communist he is . . .

The crowd likes it. They seem to respond, albeit guardedly, to the redemptive story of the 80 million developing-world schoolchildren, to Brown's gratitude to the state system for his education and to the NHS for saving his sight. At home, he's offering "a new politics, a new form of democracy . . . the agenda is to find a means to involve and engage". Abroad he wants a "new covenant between the rich countries and the poor countries". Later, I look up the phrase. Apart from its biblical origin (Jeremiah 31: 31-4 ) and its echoes within Scottish Protestantism, the "new covenant" was also Bill Clinton's 1991 campaign theme, a term for his proposed relationship with the American people. I take it as a sign of Brown's particular flavour of Americanism, his desire to reach out both to Bible-study Bushies and socially minded Democrats.

Young Labour hustings, Museum of Modern Art, Oxford, 10 June

Helicopters fly overhead. The director of the city's contemporary art space is excited to be hosting the Chancellor. At the end of the street is a small anti-nuclear protest. Inside, student activists in red T-shirts (optimistic slogan: "Ambitions for Britain") chat to the deputy leadership candidates. Brown is warmly applauded as he arrives. He's dressed down (a rare event, apparently). No tie, blue blazer, button-down shirt, chinos, loafers - the uniform of the smart-casual North American executive. The museum director ("our brand is excellence, international excellence") gives him an old grey-striped Penguin special to sign - J E D Hall's Labour's First Year, an account of the Attlee government. "I couldn't find one of your books in the shops," he says, perhaps unwisely.

Brown has, of course, got a new book out. Courage: Eight Portraits is a collection of Wikipedia-esque capsule bios of unimpeachably courageous types like Nelson Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi, fleshed out with sentiments such as this:

All these heroes . . . command our highest admiration and gratitude; already the wars and uncertainties of our still young century show these qualities are needed still, and are still there when they are needed.

The book is full of such Hollywood sentences - the high stakes, the feel-good ending. The narratives themselves often end badly - most of Brown's heroes get assassinated, executed, or spend years in prison. But that's not the point. The point is his appreciation of the quality (defined here as "action aligned to conviction") which links them together, and might just link us and him if we get on board the freedom train. It's notable that (if you discount Mandela's communism, which isn't dwelt on) none of his heroes is a socialist. Given the title, a deliberate echo of JFK's Profiles in Courage, and its inclusion of Bobby Kennedy among the courageous, it's hard not to see it as another arrow pointing in the direction of the US Democrats as the source of the proposed renewal. In Tom Bower's hostile biography (reissued and updated for the coronation), Brown is portrayed as suffering failures of nerve at several key moments in his career. Bower's claim appears to be that Brown's "big clunking fist" is a substitute for a killer instinct, a viciousness that Blair, for all his presentational lightness, has in spades. Maybe a book associating oneself with the idea of courage is some kind of giveaway of nail-biting weakness.

Brown is interviewed by the TV presenter June Sarpong. Getting down with the kids, he mentions the social networking site MySpace, which he terms "the biggest youth club in the country", skilfully positioning himself somewhere between Cliff Richard and the skiffle boom in the landscape of contemporary hip. On that site, "Gordon Brown" has the tag "don't you wish your PM was hot like me" and says that he'd like to meet "a good assassin" to murder the previous occupant of 10 Downing Street. His 1,452 friends include "Margaret Thatcher", "Lord Levy", "Alan Partridge" and "Tony Blair", whose own page has quite a good picture of David Cameron smoking a spliff. Many people appear to be communicating with "Gordon" in the belief that he's the man standing on stage in front of me, name-dropping Bono. Somewhere, buried in the site, you find "Gordon Brown For Britain" and his 100 friends. I fear the Chancellor may be setting himself up for another Arctic Monkeys moment.

In Oxford, his speech is almost entirely given over to global warming and international development. He tells a story about meeting a 12-year-old Kenyan Aids orphan and rails against people who believe in the impossibility of social change. He sees the debt relief agreement as his defining achievement, at least for this young audience. The large numbers of young people who bought Make Poverty History wristbands are a ready-made constituency for his brand of global feel-good rhetoric, and at the end of his presentation they respond enthusiastically. Leaving aside doubts about whether the Gleneagles promises will be kept, or whether they're meaningful at all without a revolution in trade, it's evident Brown is proud of them. If there's a dream animating the mysterious space behind his sea-island cotton shirt, international agreements on debt and climate are part of it.

An American journalist I met remarked that it's hard to think of another world leader who would end a hustings speech on the topic of debt relief. That should give us pause. So is Brown an internationalist? Or is he just a technocrat, committed simply to more efficient management in the interests of the existing global elite? Can his apparently sincere desire for reform be delivered by the politics he espouses? Is he merely captivated by the fading image of the Kennedys and Camelot? None of these questions will be answered this afternoon, but I have the pleasure of watching him field others - on the al-Yamamah arms deal ("I have no knowledge of such things"), nurses' pay and detention without trial. It seems Young Labour is rather less docile than the rest of the party.

Carers' Week reception, 11 Downing Street, 13 June

Some 150 carers and care workers are enjoying the Chancellor's hospitality in Downing Street. Outside, it's all automatic weapons and crash barriers and high forest-green screens to shield against rocket attack. Inside, Brown is smiling at Sam Brereton, who was born with Down's syndrome and is cared for by his mother and his father, a charity director who's just given a speech. Sam is unfazed, and has happily interrupted Brown's peroration on his personal commitment to carers and his recognition that the government needs to do more.

Brown's smile is a wry, lopsided thing, quite unlike the toothy grin he dispenses while working a room. It's a rare flash of unmediated emotion, perhaps the only one I've seen in all the hours of watching him. He snaps out of it, making jokes about the Treasury's parsimony, pointing at the oak floor ("we can't afford a carpet") and the large Frank Auerbach abstract on the wall in front of him ("that used to be a Gainsborough"). Soon enough he's off to another engagement. Sam, however, is chatting like a political pro. He introduces himself and I ask what he said to the next prime minister. "I told him he seemed like a nice man." So what did Brown say? He shrugs. "Oh, you know. Hello Sam. Things like that." Then he gives me a flash of his Manchester United tie.

Watching Brown on TV, 24 June

There they are on TV, the divorced couple. Blair's world tour has taken him to see the Pope, the tycoon Bernard Arnault and Arnold Schwarzenegger, an accelerating spiral of cele-brity nonsense which is about to catapult him into the post-political stratosphere. Meanwhile on earth, Brown is striding down a station platform, a spring in his step, perhaps the result of a poll which shows him ahead of Cameron in popularity. In a BBC interview he sounds like our new CEO. Later, he embraces Blair on the podium and tells us his Labour Party "must have a soul". He bows his head and announces that he is "ready to serve". Let's hope we can meet his targets.

This article first appeared in the 02 July 2007 issue of the New Statesman, The Brown revolution begins
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We need to talk about the online radicalisation of young, white women

Alt-right women are less visible than their tiki torch-carrying male counterparts - but they still exist. 

In November 2016, the writer and TED speaker Siyanda Mohutsiwa tweeted a ground-breaking observation. “When we talk about online radicalisation we always talk about Muslims. But the radicalisation of white men online is at astronomical levels,” she wrote, inspiring a series of mainstream articles on the topic (“We need to talk about the online radicalisation of young, white men,” wrote Abi Wilkinson in The Guardian). It is now commonly accepted that online radicalisation is not limited to the work of Isis, which uses social media to spread propaganda and recruit new members. Young, white men frequently form alt-right and neo-Nazi beliefs online.

But this narrative, too, is missing something. When it comes to online radicalisation into extreme right-wing, white supremacist, or racist views, women are far from immune.

“It’s a really slow process to be brainwashed really,” says Alexandra*, a 22-year-old former-racist who adopted extreme views during the United States presidential election of 2016. In particular, she believed white people to be more intelligent than people of colour. “It definitely felt like being indoctrinated into a cult.”

Alexandra was “indoctrinated” on 4Chan, the imageboard site where openly racist views flourish, especially on boards such as /pol/. It is a common misconception that 4Chan is only used by loser, basement-dwelling men. In actuality, 4Chan’s official figures acknowledge 30 percent of its users are female. More women may frequent 4Chan and /pol/ than it first appears, as many do not announce their gender on the site because of its “Tits or GTFO” culture. Even when women do reveal themselves, they are often believed to be men who are lying for attention.

“There are actually a lot of females on 4chan, they just don't really say. Most of the time it just isn't relevant,” says Alexandra. Her experiences on the site are similar to male users who are radicalised by /pol/’s far-right rhetoric. “They sowed the seeds of doubt with memes,” she laughs apprehensively. “Dumb memes and stuff and jokes…

“[Then] I was shown really bullshit studies that stated that some races were inferior to others like… I know now that that’s bogus science, it was bad statistics, but I never bothered to actually look into the truth myself, I just believed what was told to me.”

To be clear, online alt-right radicalisation still skews majority male (and men make up most of the extreme far-right, though women have always played a role in white supremacist movements). The alt-right frequently recruits from misogynistic forums where they prey on sexually-frustrated males and feed them increasingly extreme beliefs. But Alexandra’s story reveals that more women are part of radical right-wing online spaces than might first be apparent.

“You’d think that it would never happen to you, that you would never hold such horrible views," says Alexandra. "But it just happened really slowly and I didn't even notice it until too late."


We are less inclined to talk about radical alt-right and neo-Nazi women because they are less inclined to carry out radical acts. Photographs that emerged from the white nationalist rally in Charlottesville this weekend revealed that it was mostly polo shirt-wearing young, white men picking up tiki torches, shouting racial slurs, and fighting with counter-protestors. The white supremacist and alt-right terror attacks of the last year have also been committed by men, not women. But just because women aren’t as visible doesn’t mean they are not culpable.  

“Even when people are alt-right or sympathisers with Isis, it’s a tiny percentage of people who are willing or eager to die for those reasons and those people typically have significant personal problems and mental health issues, or suicidal motives,” explains Adam Lankford, author of The Myth of Martyrdom: What Really Drives Suicide Bombers, Rampage Shooters, and Other Self-Destructive Killers.

“Both men and women can play a huge role in terms of shaping the radicalised rhetoric that then influences those rare people who commit a crime.”

Prominent alt-right women often publicly admit that their role is more behind-the-scenes. Ayla Stewart runs the blog Wife With a Purpose, where she writes about “white culture” and traditional values. She was scheduled to speak at the Charlottesville “Unite the Right” rally before dropping out due to safety concerns. In a blog post entitled “#Charlottesville May Have Redefined Women’s Roles in the Alt Right”, she writes:

“I’ve decided that the growth of the movement has necessitated that I pick and choose my involvement as a woman more carefully and that I’m more mindful to chose [sic] women’s roles only.”

These roles include public speaking (only when her husband is present), gaining medical skills, and “listening to our men” in order to provide moral support. Stewart declined to be interviewed for this piece.

It is clear, therefore, that alt-right women do not have to carry out violence to be radical or radicalised. In some cases, they are complicit in the violence that does occur. Lankford gives the example of the Camp Chapman attack, committed by a male Jordanian suicide bomber against a CIA base in Afghanistan.

“What the research suggests in that case was the guy who ultimately committed the suicide bombing may have been less radical than his wife,” he explains. “His wife was actually pushing him to be more radical and shaming him for his lack of courage.” 


Just because women are less likely to be violent doesn’t mean they are incapable of it.

Angela King is a former neo-Nazi who went to prison for her part in the armed robbery and assault of a Jewish shop owner. She now runs Life After Hate, a non-profit that aims to help former right-wing extremists. While part of a skinhead gang, it was her job to recruit other women to the cause.

“I was well known for the violence I was willing to inflict on others… often times the men would come up to me and say we don’t want to physically hurt a woman so can you take care of this,” King explains. “When I brought other women in I looked for the same qualities in them that I thought I had in myself.”

King's 1999 mugshot


These traits, King explains, were anger and a previous history of violence. She was 15 when she became involved with neo-Nazis, and explains that struggles with her sexuality and bullying had made her into a violent teenager.

“I was bullied verbally for years. I didn't fit in, I was socially awkward,” she says. One incident in particular stands out. Aged 12, King was physically bullied for the first time.

“I was humiliated in a way that even today I still am humiliated by this experience,” she says. One day, King made the mistake of sitting at a desk that “belonged” to a bully. “She started a fight with me in front of the entire class… I’ve always struggled with weight so I was a little bit pudgy, I had my little training bra on, and during the fight she ripped my shirt open in front of the entire class.

“At that age, having absolutely no self-confidence, I made the decision that if I became the bully, and took her place, I could never be humiliated like that again.”

Angela King, aged 18

King’s story is important because when it comes to online radicalisation, the cliché is that bullied, “loser” men are drawn to these alt-right and neo-Nazi communities. The most prominent women in the far-right (such as Stewart, and Lauren Southern, a YouTuber) are traditionally attractive and successful, with long blonde hair and flashing smiles. In actuality, women that are drawn to the movement online might be struggling, like King, to be socially accepted. This in no way justifies or excuses extreme behaviour, but can go some way to explaining how and why certain young women are radicalised. 

“At the age of 15 I had been bullied, raped. I had started down a negative path you know, experimenting with drugs, drinking, theft. And I was dealing with what I would call an acute identity crisis and essentially I was a very, very angry young woman who was socially awkward who did not feel like I had a place in the world, that I fit in anywhere. And I had no self-confidence or self-esteem. I hated everything about myself.”

King explains that Life After Hate’s research reveals that there are often non-ideological based precursors that lead people to far right groups. “Individuals don’t go to hate groups because they already hate everyone, they go seeking something. They go to fill some type of void in their lives that they’re not getting.”

None of this, of course, excuses the actions and beliefs of far-right extremists, but it does go some way to explaining how “normal” young people can be radicalised online. I ask Alexandra, the former 4Chan racist, if anything else was going on in her life when she was drawn towards extreme beliefs.

“Yes, I was lonely,” she admits.                                                       


That lonely men and women can both be radicalised in the insidious corners of the internet shouldn’t be surprising. For years, Isis has recruited vulnerable young women online, with children as young as 15 becoming "jihadi brides". We have now acknowledged that the cliché of virginal, spotty men being driven to far-right hate excludes the college-educated, clean-cut white men who made up much of the Unite the Right rally last weekend. We now must realise that right-wing women, too, are radicalised online, and they, too, are culpable for radical acts.  

It is often assumed that extremist women are radicalised by their husbands or fathers, which is aided by statements by far-right women themselves. The YouTuber, Southern, for example, once said:  

“Anytime they [the left] talk about the alt-right, they make it sound like it’s just about a bunch of guys in basements. They don’t mention that these guys have wives – supportive wives, who go to these meet-ups and these conferences – who are there – so I think it’s great for right-wing women to show themselves. We are here. You’re wrong.”

Although there is truth in this statement, women don’t have to have far-right husbands, brothers, or fathers in order to be drawn to white supremacist or alt-right movements. Although it doesn’t seem the alt-right are actively preying on young white women the same way they prey on young white men, many women are involved in online spaces that we wrongly assume are male-only. There are other spaces, such as Reddit's r/Hawtschwitz, where neo-Nazi women upload nude and naked selfies, carving a specific space for themselves in the online far-right. 

When we speak of women radicalised by husbands and fathers, we misallocate blame. Alexandra deeply regrets her choices, but she accepts they were her own. “I’m not going to deny that what I did was bad because I have to take responsibility for my actions,” she says.

Alexandra, who was “historically left-wing”, was first drawn to 4Chan when she became frustrated with the “self-righteousness” of the website Tumblr, favoured by liberal teens. Although she frequented the site's board for talking about anime, /a/, not /pol/, she found neo-Nazi and white supremacist beliefs were spread there too. 

“I was just like really fed up with the far left,” she says, “There was a lot of stuff I didn't like, like blaming males for everything.” From this, Alexandra became anti-feminist and this is how she was incrementally exposed to anti-Semitic and racist beliefs. This parallels the story of many radicalised males on 4Chan, who turn to the site from hatred of feminists or indeed, all women. 

 “What I was doing was racist, like I – deep down I didn't really fully believe it in my heart, but the seeds of doubt were sowed again and it was a way to fit in. Like, if you don't regurgitate their opinions exactly they’ll just bully you and run you off.”

King’s life changed in prison, where Jamaican inmates befriended her and she was forced to reassess her worldview. Alexandra now considers herself “basically” free from prejudices, but says trying to rid herself of extreme beliefs is like “detoxing from drugs”. She began questioning 4Chan when she first realised that they genuinely wanted Donald Trump to become president. “I thought that supporting Trump was just a dumb meme on the internet,” she says.

Nowadays, King dedicates her life to helping young people escape from far-right extremism. "Those of us who were involved a few decades ago we did not have this type of technology, cell phones were not the slim white phones we have today, they were giant boxes," she says. "With the younger individuals who contact us who grew up with this technology, we're definitely seeing people who initially stumbled across the violent far-right online and the same holds for men and women.

"Instead of having to be out in public in a giant rally or Klan meeting, individuals find hate online."

* Name has been changed

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 02 July 2007 issue of the New Statesman, The Brown revolution begins