Katherine Kondor — Watching the far-right culture ‘influencers’

Katherine Kondor is used to being an outlier. While many of her colleagues study the far-right through voting patterns and party policies, her research covers clothing brands, Instagram aesthetics, food, and the top 40 music charts.

“Culture creates the conditions for political movements to thrive,” she says. “It’s not just about who you vote for. It’s also what you wear, what you eat, what you listen to."

Working from the Norwegian Center for Holocaust and Minority Studies and affiliated with the Center for Research on Extremism (C-REX), Kondor leads a six-country research project tracking how far-right ideologies become part of everyday life. 

She and her team study a wide, seemingly incoherent range of subjects; from far-right fashion brands in Hungary, to meme-driven t-shirts in Spain, folky far-right music in Sweden, and fitness influencers who fuse nationalism with nutrition advice.

While the skinheads of the 90s are still around, the far-right is not as immediately recognisable anymore. “You don't look at them and go, ‘that guy's a Nazi’, unless you know what to listen for, unless you know what they're saying,” Kondor says. 

Today, rather than sporting a forehead swastika tattoo, the face of the far-right might look like a clean-cut wellness coach, a female influencer baking sourdough, or a young man talking about national pride while drinking a protein shake.

Kondor says that there’s a misconception that people going down the far-right rabbit hole do so because they believe in the ideology. Or that it’s a conviction (like protecting fundamental rights is for the left). But that’s not necessarily the case. “People join for all sorts of reasons,” she says.

The far-right’s embrace of things seen to be part of everyday ‘normal’ culture isn’t accidental. Kondor points to examples like a Hungarian far-right brand producing t-shirts celebrating a national football win over England — a design that could appeal to any patriotic fan — while also drawing them into a wider web of extremist merchandise, sometimes unwittingly.

"Normalisation is more one-sided. It’s about how far-right actors push their views into the cultural bloodstream. We study what they supply, not how it's received"

Music, too, plays a role. Several far-right-affiliated bands have had hits in Hungary’s national top 40 lists. The lyrics sound like generic patriotism at first, she says. “But there's a lot more in there. And of course, if you like one song, you might listen to more… and it snowballs from there.”

These elements serve as gateways. A teenager might join a local far-right club not out of deep ideological conviction, but because their friends are in it, or because they like the music. “So we need to understand what everyday people are thinking and feeling and doing, particularly youth.”

Kondor’s work highlights how far-right ideas are normalised through culture. This, she says, is different from what researchers often call "mainstreaming," which implies a two-way shift between fringe and centre. "Normalisation is more one-sided. It’s about how far-right actors push their views into the cultural bloodstream. We study what they supply, not how it's received."

The internet can accelerate this process. Kondor sees online culture not as separate from the real world, but as its extension. "Online is real. It’s where people form opinions, build identities, and spend most of their time. It's not a separate space."

The far-right movement has grown into a fully-fledged cultural system that can be accessed through pretty much all aspects of ‘normal’ life. For almost any niche interest, there will be someone supplying news and information, mixed in with far-right ideology — there are even a few far-right trans influencers.

An upcoming project co-written by Kondor explores how the far-right even weaponises food — from anti-kebab campaigns to nationalist meal kits. "It sounds absurd, until you realise how powerful food is as a marker of identity and belonging."

The spread is obviously not confined to any single country. Kondor’s team is studying trends in Norway, Sweden, Hungary, Germany, Italy and Spain. "Hungary may be more advanced in normalising far-right culture, but we see similar mechanisms everywhere," she says. “It’s transnational — they share memes, tactics, even branding. But always with a strong local identity."

"This isn’t just about politics. It’s about who we are as a society"

What worries Kondor is how focused these tactics are on targeting youth, especially teenage boys. Like everyone else, “they are being bombarded online by the far-right,” and the content is crafted to appeal to them — videos, memes, influencers. Some join out of boredom or curiosity, others because it gives them a sense of community, she says.

Researching these dynamics takes its toll. Kondor speaks candidly about the emotional strain of her work. Threats are common, and the material she examines — images, messages, songs — can be psychologically exhausting. "You develop a wall, a kind of professional distance. But it's not healthy."

Still, she sees hope in awareness. Her team is developing an exhibition focused on how teenagers can recognise extremist content in everyday digital life. "This isn’t just about politics. It’s about who we are as a society."

Asked what she most wants Europeans to understand about the culture of the far-right, she pauses. “It's this anti-gender mobilisation that's happening right now. And what's really crucial is that trans rights are women's rights and are human rights. We should care about them because they're humans – and important – but we need to understand that taking away rights from one group of people takes away rights from more groups of people, and it just spreads.”

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