Saturday, 13 September 2025

Tradition, Faith, Free Speech, and the Market: How the Right Lost Its Bearings and the Left Lost Its Edge

Tradition, Faith, Free Speech, and the Market: 
How the Right Lost Its Bearings and the Left Lost Its Edge


Charlie Kirk’s death at the hands of a fellow conservative was not just a shock event. It was also a mirror. It revealed not only how fractured American conservatism has become but also how brittle the ideological foundations of the movement are. Supporters lionize Kirk as a defender of free speech, Christian values, and tradition, but that brand of conservatism increasingly defends symbols, not substance. In practice it has ceded the terrain of economics entirely to the very forces that corrode the traditions it claims to protect. 

How come? Supporters feel that regardless of the controversies—his harsh rhetoric toward minorities, trans people, and many others—the real win was holding ground on what they see as existential values. Even now, after his death, those same themes dominate the conversations of his defenders. When critics highlight Kirk’s statements—dismissing the Civil Rights Act, mocking parents of gun-violence victims, espousing great replacement fears—his supporters often see those less as disqualifying sins than as unavoidable excesses in the fight to reclaim what they believe has been ceded. 

But, such statements also drew criticism from media, other conservatives, and fact-checkers. The controversies built up over time, generating both fierce loyalty among followers and strong rejection from critics. Part of the problem is that this kind of rhetorical excess tends to erode credibility—even among allies. When someone continually says something extreme or borderline dehumanizing, the critics say: what does this say about your moral judgment, your seriousness? To put it another way: free speech and Christian values become harder to defend when the speech is perceived (with some justification) as hateful, or when the invocation of faith seems performative more than principled. 
Also, the rhetorical style—taunting, provocative, incendiary—can fuel backlash, make compromise harder, and often polarize rather than persuade. And polarization itself creates a feedback loop: more extreme rhetoric to energize the base, which then produces more backlash, which then prompts more extreme defense. That dynamic has been well observed in studies of political polarization, though here in the U.S. there has been less rigorous polling on the consequences of a figure like Kirk specifically. 

But again, hus recent death shows it's not the "left" who's behind this. Contrary to the statements, Kirk's death shows an internal rift within these modern-day "conservatives", who, like Kirk, preaches free speech absolutism in its unadulterated, incorrect form. At first glance, this used to be that “left vs. right” was the primary frame. But now, within the right—among young conservatives, among alt-right, Christian nationalists, MAGA-aligned groups, Free speech absolutists, etc.—there has been growing antagonism, split over what conservatism ought to mean, how far rhetorically and morally one should go, and which enemies are primary.  
The “Groyper Wars,” starting around 2019, are a vivid example. Groypers, followers of Nick Fuentes, frequently disrupted Kirk’s events, asked highly provocative questions designed to expose what they saw as hypocrisy or moderation in Kirk’s approach to race, immigration, Israel, LGBT rights. They saw Kirk as too willing to work within mainstream conservatism (“Conservative, Inc.”), too polite or mainstream in some ways. 

After Kirk’s death, this internal tension hasn’t gone away; if anything, the rhetoric from the far-right of a kind calling for “war,” for vengeance, for militant protection shows how divisions can degenerate into hostility across ideological lines within the right. There are even those who said in life they saw Kirk as an enemy because he didn’t embrace white collectivism enough—but in death, they are calling him a martyr.

The Paradox of Conservatism: When Markets Blind

The right has learned to talk about “cultural Marxism” and “woke capitalism,” but it treats culture and economics as separate, as if moral decay can be solved without examining the economic substrate that produces it. The Thatcherite dictum “there is no alternative” to capitalism still defines its worldview, with every social problem reduced to a question of virtue or family. “Free” becomes a privilege of those who can afford it. Markets are presumed neutral if not above society. This makes it impossible for conservatism to confront its own contradictions: lamenting the destruction of tradition while defending the very market dynamics that dissolve tradition.

The irony is that earlier conservative thinkers themselves — Ernst Jünger, Oswald Spengler, Carl Schmitt — were deeply suspicious of liberal capitalism. The “Conservative Revolution” of interwar Europe saw capitalism as corrosive of hierarchy, rootedness, and meaning. Jünger’s Der Arbeiter (1932) foresaw “total mobilization” under technics and market imperatives. Today’s American right, by contrast, elevates Ayn Rand, Milton Friedman, and Thomas Sowell while reflexively mocking Marx, rarely engaging with his actual critique of political economy. It can diagnose moral decline but not the material conditions that create it. 

This leads to a peculiar inversion: in practice, the supposedly “Marxist” regimes of the Eastern Bloc often behaved more conservatively than Western conservatives do today. They imposed strict controls on pornography, gambling, drugs, and advertising; they promoted stable family structures and demographic control; they regulated mass media and tied women’s participation in the workforce to national productivity and political participation rather than simply "sexual liberation". LGBT people existed, but only within narrow confines of law, not as a consumer identity. Whatever their other authoritarian faults, these governments saw unregulated markets and unbounded consumerism as corrosive. On paper at least, they looked more “traditional” than the deregulated, hyper-consumerist West. 

Meanwhile, Western conservatives defended “free markets” so absolutely that they ended up enabling the very culture they claim to despise. The late Christopher Lasch, a critic from the left, saw this clearly: market society undermines its own moral foundations. What conservatives call “moral decline” often begins as the commodification of everyday life. The family, religion, and community become niches for advertisers, employers, and landlords rather than counterweights to capital. 

When aesthetics are devoid yet still repurposed 

This paradox extends into the culture wars around “woke.” Liberal academics and activists created the language of recognition and inclusion; corporations packaged it as HR seminars, ESG statements, and rainbow-washed logos. Social justice became a brand, a way to manage diverse workforces while union-busting or maintaining precarious gig work. It was the anti-capitalist left, not the capitalist class, that once linked identity to redistribution — from early socialists fighting for women’s suffrage and workplace safety to Latin America’s Pink Tide governments redistributing wealth to marginalized groups. Today, anti-capitalists are again trying to strip “woke” of its corporate gloss and return it to material solidarity. 

This note captures it: the liberal created the woke, the capitalist promoted the woke, and the anti-capitalist can take it away. This dynamic exposes the hollowness of much of today’s debate: conservatives attack “woke elites” while ignoring the capitalist structures making “woke” profitable; liberals defend symbolic recognition without touching the underlying inequality. 

Adding to this churn is the way counterculture itself is repurposed. “How come even the conservative joins the hipster culture?” Gavin McInnes offers the answer. Once the co-founder of Vice, he carried the “hipster” aesthetic — tattoos, ironic thrift, barroom camaraderie — into the far right, founding the Proud Boys. What began as a rejection of corporate suits became a rebranding of reaction as rebellion. This is not new. Punk and skinhead scenes were battlegrounds for left and right in the 1980s. Subcultures provide aesthetic toolkits. Once stripped of progressive content, irony and thrift can be rebranded as “anti-PC” insurgency. 

The rise of “hipster conservatism” signals a generational shift. The old religious right presented conservatism as moral rectitude and respectability. The new “edgy right” presents it as trolling, transgression, and freedom from decorum. Internet meme culture makes it possible to float racism, misogyny, or conspiracy theories under the guise of “just joking.” This aesthetic of irony gives plausible deniability to extremism while making it feel cool, rebellious, and authentic to younger audiences. 

The deeper lesson is that culture, economy, and politics are inseparable. If capitalism can market “woke” as a lifestyle, it can also market “anti-woke” as a lifestyle. Hipster conservatism is the mirror image of woke capitalism, another commodity in the culture industry. Both rely on branding wars rather than material solidarity. 

A war within its "self"

Taken together, these reversals suggest the traditional categories of left and right are overdue for overhaul. Conservatives denounce “cultural Marxism” while adopting countercultural aesthetics. Liberals launch “woke” ideas yet see them hollowed out by corporate marketing. Anti-capitalists try to reclaim both economic and cultural life from the market logic that swallowed them. The question is whether any movement can build a politics rooted in material security and moral coherence rather than in the aesthetic churn of late capitalism. 

Charlie Kirk’s death dramatized these contradictions. His career — and the reaction to his killing — reveals a conservatism at war with itself, unable to reconcile its moral claims with its economic commitments, and vulnerable to subcultural rebranding. It also reveals a liberalism content to let recognition replace redistribution, and a capitalism eager to package both. If there is a way forward, it will require refusing the market’s ability to commodify every identity, including conservatism itself, and recovering a sense that freedom, tradition, and solidarity are not separate realms but one intertwined social fabric. 

Friday, 12 September 2025

“A Nation at the Edge, and a People Beyond Half-Measures: Fighting Corruption or Losing Itself”

“A Nation at the Edge, and a People Beyond Half-Measures: 
Fighting Corruption or Losing Itself”


At a critical juncture for the Philippines—marked by crisis and politically motivated upheavals—attempts to distract the public from confronting corruption are no longer just futile; they are reckless. The nation stands at a moment when looking away is complicity, and the people know it. 

This is no longer a matter of constitutional formality but of national character. Citizens have asserted their inherent duty to seek truth from facts, confronting a system long marred by corruption, mismanagement, and outright economic sabotage. The real challenge now is to expose the rot within the ranks of power and dismantle the culture of impunity that has hollowed out public trust. 

The flood-control revelations are the clearest proof yet. Billions of pesos poured into public works have produced “ghost” structures, half-finished embankments, and overpriced contracts. District engineers have been reassigned, senators and representatives implicated, and entire chains of contractors exposed. What was presented as infrastructure has, in too many cases, become a conveyor belt for kickbacks. This is not development; it is theft. 

Nor is this an isolated scandal. Overpricing, duplicate contracts, and repeated “repairs” to justify inflated budgets have persisted across administrations. The losses are staggering: communities left vulnerable to floods, billions gone, and public faith eroded still further. It is a moral disgrace as much as it is an economic one. 

Yet the public has not remained silent. Protests have erupted, faith leaders have spoken out, and ordinary citizens are reporting anomalies with unprecedented boldness. What began as a government initiative to monitor corruption has become a national crusade for good governance, justice, and progress—an effort to anchor the Philippines firmly in integrity. 

Predictably, entrenched powers are fighting back, branding critics as destabilizers, subversives, even “terrorists.” But the real subversion is corruption itself. When legality is wielded as a shield for plunder, the public’s insistence on accountability becomes an act of national self-defense. History shows that entrenched systems of power have relied on disenfranchisement and injustice to preserve their interests. Against this backdrop, calls for action inevitably signal a willingness to go beyond narrow legal parameters in the name of saving the nation. 

This is not about revenge or spectacle—it is about survival. A nation without integrity cannot prosper, no matter how impressive its GDP numbers look on paper. The Philippines stands at a crossroads. Either the anti-corruption drive becomes a transformative movement—rooted in transparency, backed by civic courage—or it becomes another footnote in the long history of broken promises. 

The time for half measures is over; the country must decide whether it will remain captive to rot or fight, however bitterly, for the restoration of integrity. The strength of the country rests on both the rule of law and the unity of its people. But due process, perceived as slow, has become an opportunity for the corrupt to “clear house.” Neighboring countries have shown that decisive action can clean up entire systems, and Filipinos are increasingly willing to take what they call “the bitter cup” in an effort to reclaim a nation's future.  

Thursday, 11 September 2025

Duterte’s “Plight” Isn’t a Soap Opera: Stop the Copium!

Duterte’s “Plight” Isn’t a Soap Opera: Stop the Copium! 


Some Duterte supporters, especially the diehard ones, are still clinging to the fantasy that Rodrigo Duterte will be released and returned to the Philippines. They chant “Bring him home” like it’s a rock concert, waving banners and posting hashtags as if this were some feel-good finale rather than a man facing serious crimes against humanity. 

It’s hard not to see the pattern: every medical report, every legal argument, every procedural delay inside the International Criminal Court (ICC) is instantly reframed by loyalists as proof that Duterte is being “persecuted,” that his “plight” deserves sympathy, or that his “legacy” somehow shields him from accountability. In short, they are mainlining copium. 

Take the claim that Duterte is unfit for trial due to cognitive deficiencies: "Duterte suffers from significant cognitive deficiencies that affect his memory, his daily executive functioning, his visuoconstructive abilities, and his orientation to place and time while, simultaneously, limiting his capacity for complex reasoning." Said Duterte's legal team. 

"[He] is currently unable to meaningfully participate in the legal proceedings against him. Specifically, he lacks the capacity to remember, assimilate and apply information to be able to give his lawyers effective instructions. He will not be able to fluently recall information from the period relevant to the case such as to be able to testify. To conclude, [he] will not be able to meaningfully engage with the legal process and is unfit to stand trial." The statement added. 

Let’s be clear: this is not the result of a professional psychiatric evaluation. This is the opinion of his lawyer, Nicholas Kaufman, not a licensed mental health expert. Meanwhile, when Duterte was arrested, he was alert, asking questions, invoking his rights, and interacting with authorities. Evidence against him is solid, detailed, and unimpeachable. No copium here can rewrite that reality. 

Even Atty. Kristina Conti, ICC Assistant to the Counsel, noted plainly: “Yesterday, I watched Kitty [Duterte], and she said he is fine and has no health issues.” 

So much for the “he’s too sick to stand trial” narrative. What supporters are treating as a compassionate concern is, in reality, a strategic dodge—a way to stall justice while preserving the fantasy that Duterte’s flaws somehow justify his impunity. 

Let people remember what the country, the Philippines is dealing with: a man accused of mass murder, who openly boasted about being willing to kill three million Filipinos. This is not a matter of political opinion or fan loyalty. This is a matter of international law. No ICC member state will welcome the leader of a non-member state under these circumstances. 

Duterte will be confined at Scheveningen Prison in the Netherlands for the foreseeable future—likely at least ten years—and, if convicted, faces life imprisonment without parole. The ICC was established to ensure that justice transcends nationalistic loyalty, celebrity cults, or political partisanship. Interim release for individuals accused of crimes against humanity is extremely rare and would require a willing, capable state to enforce strict conditions—a scenario that does not apply to Duterte. 

And yet, his supporters treat this as a tragic story, a soap opera where their hero is being wronged. Every report of a supposed medical issue, every delay in the ICC proceedings, every minor procedural hiccup is instantly seized upon as “proof” that Duterte is being persecuted. They frame his condition as a noble “plight,” and even his “legacy” becomes an excuse to ignore accountability. This is copium at its finest—an emotional anesthetic that allows them to avoid confronting inconvenient truths. 

It’s not surprising that some supporters also joyride through current issues, presenting themselves as staunchly “against Marcos” or as defenders of national morality, when in fact the logic is often closer to: “Duterte was right, even when he did wrong.” Recent scandals highlight this perfectly. Many of the legislators implicated happen to be Duterte supporters, raising uncomfortable questions about whether the so-called “legacy” they defend is itself tainted. Indeed, contractors who profited from programs like “Build, Build, Build” may have benefited from the very corruption and mismanagement that these supporters conveniently ignore. 

In other words, the idolization of Duterte is less about principle and more about emotional investment. Every scandal, every misstep by those associated with him, is either rationalized or dismissed, reinforcing a fantasy world where their leader remains infallible. Meanwhile, reality—the deaths, the abuses, the human rights violations—remains inconveniently persistent. The copium they inhale is not just about his health or his trial; it is about preserving a comforting illusion in which moral and legal accountability can be ignored, delayed, or deflected. 

Duterte’s so-called “plight” and “legacy” are not shields. They are excuses, carefully curated narratives designed to let his supporters feel righteous while the very consequences of his actions continue to unfold, unchallenged. It is a dangerous kind of loyalty—one that confuses emotional devotion for justice, and partisan cheerleading for moral clarity. 

Here’s the reality: Duterte betrayed the Philippine Constitution. He violated international human rights covenants. He oversaw policies and committed actions that the international community, humanity, and every right-thinking Filipino condemns. His “legacy” is not heroic. His “plight” is not tragic. It is accountability catching up with him. 

It is time for Duterte supporters to wake up. Justice does not care about fan loyalty. It does not bend for chants, banners, or hashtags. It does not wait for the healing of wounded pride. The ICC process is deliberate, slow, and impartial—for a reason. And in the end, justice will be served. 

Stop treating this man’s crimes like a drama series. Stop turning his legal jeopardy into a narrative of victimhood. Stop inhaling copium. Rodrigo Duterte’s time under scrutiny has come, and no amount of fan worship can alter the course of history.  

From Frontier to Franchise, Tradition in Ruins: Thoughts after the Death of a 'Rugged Individual' in Utah

From Frontier to Franchise, Tradition in Ruins:
Thoughts after the Death of a 'Rugged Individual' in Utah

By Kat Ulrike


In the shadow of modernity’s crumbling edifice, the assassination of Charlie Kirk at Utah Valley University is less tragedy than revelation. It exposes not unity, not martyrdom, but the hollow center of American "conservatism". His death, like his life, was spectacle — the influencer as statesman, the talk-radio cadence as philosophy. Spengler once wrote: “In place of a world, there is a city, a point, in which all the life of broad regions is collected, while the land lies fallow.” Kirk belonged to that late-civilizational metropolis, where politics is no longer blood and soil, but performance and branding.

Kirk trafficked in the tokens of freedom: free speech, gun rights, individualism. To his admirers, these were shields of the republic. To his critics, they were weapons of cruelty. But for all, they were emptied of substance. For Ernst Jünger, the worker was “the figure of a new order,” forged in technology and war. For Kirk, freedom was an alibi for the marketplace. His invocation of the gun was not Jünger’s “organ of a new form of life,” but a stage prop. His free speech was not a forge of truth but a license for provocation without risk.

Carl Schmitt observed: “Sovereign is he who decides on the exception.” Kirk was no sovereign. He never dared decision against the order itself. His enemies were not capital or empire, but the weak — minorities, victims, the powerless. By branding them threats to “freedom,” he fortified the very liberal-capitalist order he claimed to resist. Even his anti-globalism was theater: railing at “elites” while safeguarding the circulation of money and spectacle that dissolve borders.

This is why his assassination strains belief. An outdoor rally, no checkpoints, no searches — a man long threatened, suddenly exposed. Was it negligence born of hubris, the myth of the rugged individual carried to absurdity? Or was it staged carelessness, a path to martyrdom? His defenders now invoke him as saint of speech and tradition. Yet martyrdom demands sacrifice for principle. Jünger reminded us: “The heroic is not the opposite of the comfortable, but of the merely useful.” Kirk was never heroic. He was useful — to sponsors, to networks, to capital.

Consider the American myth he embodied: the self-made man, the frontier ethos transmuted into apology for capitalist order. For over a century, this narrative has disciplined the masses: work harder, obey, distrust solidarity. Economic collapse becomes a warning against laziness, civil rights a disruption to “order,” social upheaval a threat to be quelled. Kirk cloaked himself in this tradition, mocking empathy as weakness, not because he despised feeling, but because feeling endangered the machine he served.

Yet true conservatism, if it is to exist, cannot be obedience to neoliberalism. It must be radical return, a re-rooting of man in soil and duty. Spengler again: “World history is the history of the victory of the strong over the weak.” But Kirk was not strong. He was a salesman for strength, a Randian kid peddling egoism to the atomized. He borrowed the costume of rebellion while reinforcing the reign of money. Even his flirts with “replacement” were diluted — not a challenge to capital’s homogenizing flows, but a nativist echo calibrated for ratings. The controversial Pol Pot once declared: “If our people can grow rice, they can conquer the world.” Crude, brutal, but at least rooted in the recognition that sovereignty is material — land, labor, production. Kirk, by contrast, offered sovereignty as spectacle: slogans without soil, identity without power. His anti-globalism ignored that the true architects of dispossession are corporations, dissolving borders while preaching discipline to workers. He opposed symptoms, never causes.

And so his death is not exception but symptom. He lived by the rhetorical sword, slicing at the marginalized while shielding the powerful, and died in the chaos he cultivated. Critics call it justice; defenders, martyrdom. But both inflate a figure whose significance lies in exposing the emptiness of the political form he embodied.

The deeper reckoning is with “free speech” itself. Is it a neutral shield for all utterance, even dehumanization? Or a civic contract that binds rights to responsibilities, asking who pays the cost of speech? For Kirk, it was neither law nor principle but performance — a loyalty test, an alibi for cruelty. Every critique he faced became an attack on liberty itself, dissent reduced to a foil for his populist theater. The same hollowing applied to his defense of gun rights. Once conceived as the weapon of sovereignty — the rifle as guarantor of hearth, homeland, and resistance to tyranny — in Kirk’s hands it became a stage prop, a slogan shouted at rallies, a license for spectacle rather than a serious reckoning with the responsibilities of an armed citizenry. Tradition too suffered the same fate. Instead of binding man to duty, to soil, to ancestral continuity, it was invoked as costume — nostalgia packaged for applause, emptied of obligation. Faith, finally, which for centuries anchored communities in transcendence and sacrifice, was in Kirk’s language reduced to branding, a badge of belonging for the already converted. What emerges, then, is a paradox: speech without truth, arms without duty, tradition without continuity, faith without transcendence. Each ideal was wielded as symbol, but stripped of weight. And so in death, the question is not only whether liberty can survive when invoked to excuse cruelty, but whether a society can endure when its highest goods — speech, arms, tradition, faith — are reduced to tools of performance.

Here lies the paradox. Conservatism, once defined by its suspicion of money power and its defense of rooted communities against the corrosions of the market, now kneels as capitalism’s priest. Where it once spoke of limits, duty, and soil, it now sanctifies growth, accumulation, and profit as if they were eternal virtues. The liberal, for his part, hymns “innovation,” “opportunity,” and “progress”; the conservative hymns “tradition,” “faith,” and “family.” Yet beneath these rhetorical costumes lies the same liturgy: keep working, keep consuming, keep believing that the endurance of suffering is the mark of freedom. Both parties become administrators of the same machine, quarrelling only over its language of justification.

Charlie Kirk embodied this fusion. He was no Jünger, whose Storm of Steel sought a new human type forged in fire, nor Schmitt, who grasped the essence of sovereignty in the exception, nor Spengler, who diagnosed cultures as living organisms bound for decline. He was instead a Randian personality, a Friedmanite preacher, a Sowellian pundit — fleeting, functional, derivative. His “ideas” were less doctrine than merchandise, packaged in slogans, circulated like commodities, consumed in rallies and podcasts as easily as fast food. And so his “martyrdom” rings false. Martyrdom presupposes sacrifice for something higher than the self. Kirk sacrificed nothing; he performed. What he leaves behind is not the seed of renewal but a mirror, reflecting the society that made him possible: a culture where “free speech” is no longer the forge of truth but entertainment value; where compassion is mocked as weakness because it threatens the abstractions of the market; where politics, stripped of statecraft and destiny, has been reduced to influencer spectacle — the algorithm dressed as ideology.

Let him be mourned or not. The real task lies elsewhere: to reclaim freedom from its degradation, to strip conservatism of its hollow inheritance, to build again on soil, sovereignty, and spirit. Until then, Kirk’s assassination will stand not as end but emblem — proof that a civilization content with spectacle cannot escape decay.

“A Death in Utah: Charlie Kirk and Capitalism’s Grip on Free Speech, Gun Rights, and Conservatism”

“A Death in Utah: Charlie Kirk and Capitalism’s Grip
on Free Speech, Gun Rights, and Conservatism”

In the shadow of modernity’s crumbling edifice, the assassination of Charlie Kirk on September 10, 2025, at Utah Valley University serves not as a clarion call for unity but as a grim revelation of the hollow core at the heart of American pseudo-conservatism. As a conservative revolutionary—in the vein of Ernst Jünger, who envisioned a storm of steel forging a new aristocratic order from the ruins of bourgeois liberalism—view Kirk’s demise with neither glee nor grief, but with the cold detachment of one who recognizes a symptom rather than a savior. Kirk, that showman masquerading as a defender of free speech and tradition, embodied the very contradictions that have corrupted conservatism into a lapdog of neoliberal capitalism. His death, like his life, exposes the farce: a man who preached “freedom” while chaining the spirit to the marketplace, gunned down in a spectacle that his followers now exploit as martyrdom. But let this note dismantle this illusion, for true conservatism demands revolution against the very system Kirk upheld.

Kirk’s rise was inevitable in an era where the airwaves buzz with outrage merchants and the public square devolves into a carnival of provocation. Admirers hail him as a bulwark for free speech and gun rights, yet critics—see a man who weaponized these ideals to shield cruelty and conformity. Free speech? Yes, an essential forge for the warrior’s truth. Gun rights? Indispensable for the defense of hearth and homeland against tyranny. But in Kirk’s hands, they became licenses for bigotry and banalities, mere alibis for a “conservatism” that romanticizes the rugged individualist as a cog in the capitalist machine. This is no Jüngerian stormtrooper, defiant against the mechanized horrors of modernity; Kirk was a salesman, peddling atomized egoism to the masses, reducing the noble struggle to a defense of corporate overlords.

Consider the American streak in Kirk’s ideology: that myth of the self-made man, rooted in the frontier ethos but twisted over centuries into an apology for capitalist order. For more than a century, this narrative has served as a sedative, portraying economic collapse as a “cautionary tale” for the lazy, civil rights demands as disruptions to natural hierarchy, and social upheavals as threats to be quelled. Kirk cloaked himself in this tradition, positioning his barbs as “common sense” while branding opponents as enemies of freedom. He dismissed the Civil Rights Act as “a mistake,” not from a revolutionary critique of liberal egalitarianism—which might argue for organic communities over forced integration—but from a libertarian disdain that prioritizes market “freedoms” over cultural integrity. He mocked grieving parents of gun-violence victims, branded Muslim officials a “threat,” warned of demographic “replacement” (a point where he flirted with truth but diluted it with nativist pandering), taunted trans people, and even suggested public executions as civic entertainment. These were not the pronouncements of a thinker forging a new order; they were shock tactics, drawing crowds like a circus barker, pushing the boundaries of spectacle to bind followers in tribal loyalty.

True conservatism is not preservation of the status quo but a radical return to primal forms: the soil-bound nation, the heroic individual tempered by duty to the collective ethos, the rejection of bourgeois materialism. Jünger, in The Worker and Storm of Steel, envisioned a technocratic aristocracy rising from war’s anvil, transcending the liberal-capitalist decay. Kirk, by contrast, was a creature of that decay—a “Randian kid,” as aptly put, more influencer than intellectual. He floated in the shallow waters of talk-radio outrage, where empathy is deemed “dangerous” not because it softens the warrior’s resolve, but because it might question the endless grind of accumulation. His rallies were arenas of moral deregulation, yes, but one that served the globalist elite he claimed to oppose. How can one rail against “globalism” while embracing the neoliberal capitalism that fuels it? Globalization strips nations of self-determination, reducing peoples to interchangeable consumers in a borderless market. Kirk’s “anti-globalism” was selective theater, ignoring how multinational corporations—those true architects of replacement—erode the will for justice and sovereignty.

The assassination itself begs scrutiny, amplifying the oddity of Kirk’s final act. An outdoor appearance before hundreds, a controversial figure routinely besieged by death threats, yet no security? No checkpoints, no metal detectors, no backpack searches? This strains credulity. Was it hubris, born of his rugged individualist myth, or something more calculated—a stage set for martyrdom? In the conservative revolutionary view, such negligence smacks of the bourgeois complacency that invites chaos. Kirk’s defenders now swarm the airwaves, casting his killing as proof of leftist intolerance, transforming him into a saint for free speech, faith, and tradition. Ridiculous. Martyrdom requires sacrifice for a transcendent cause, not a bullet in the service of soundbites. His supporters invoke him as a victim of the very violence he allegedly incited, but this is inversion: Kirk lived by the rhetorical sword, slicing at the marginalized while cozying up to power. “Live by the sword, die by the sword,” indeed—perhaps he had it coming, not through vengeance, but as the inexorable fruit of a dishonest life that encouraged division and death.

This framing infuriates as communities been harmed by his rhetoric—Black, Muslim, Indigenous, LGBTQ+, and gun-violence survivors—the question of mourning is moot; why console a denier of their grief? Yet for the conservative revolutionary, the deeper betrayal is Kirk’s perversion of “free speech.” In his invocation, it was no neutral principle but a performance, a defiance masking exclusion. It tested loyalty: embrace the myth of individualism or be exiled as freedom’s foe. But free speech, in the revolutionary sense, is the forge of truth, not a shield for provocation without purpose. It symbolizes a posture of daring—to speak, believe, and act against the leveling forces of modernity. Kirk’s version reduced dissent to spectacle, a foil for his populist showmanship. Now, in death, it stands at a crossroads: will it remain a moral language, binding rights to responsibilities, or devolve into an alibi for the status quo? Those weary of this “conservatism” see it for the hollow inheritance it is: the American romance of the self-made man, disciplining the masses to work harder, obey rules, distrust collective action. Social progress becomes a cautionary tale, compliance mistaken for order, order for freedom. But is this archetype relevant under capitalism’s oppression? The rugged individualist once embodied resistance—a farmer or craftsman defying authority on his soil. In Kirk’s retelling, he became a mascot for corporate power, shielding monopolies while preaching worker discipline. The independence myth, co-opted, enforces obedience to the machine.

Here lies the lingering question: has the conservative, once distrustful of capitalism’s soulless churn, become its compliant defender? Kirk exemplified this fusion, no different from the liberal who softens the same justifications. The conservative extols “tradition” and “duty”; the liberal, “opportunity” and “innovation.” Both command: keep working, keep buying, believe suffering proves freedom. Kirk and others who followed his view donned the dissident’s costume, railing against elites while reinforcing capital’s machinery. He mocked empathy not from contempt for weakness, but because it threatened the structure he served. To care—for the poor, excluded, gunfire’s victims—would unmask the lie: the “rugged individual” is enslaved, not free. What unfolds post-assassination is no tidy narrative but a clash over free speech’s essence. Is it an unqualified shield for dehumanizing barbs, or a civic contract weighing costs? Kirk’s paradox: in life, he framed critiques as liberty’s assaults; in death, he compels reckoning—can liberty endure as cruelty’s excuse? His end may also mirrors America’s value struggle: freedom as moral imperative or mere alibi.

Yet Kirk was no philosopher, no Jünger forging metaphysical rebellion, but a Randian personality, flashy and fleeting. His “martyrdom” rings false; true opposition to globalism demands war on neoliberalism, reclaiming national will and justice from capitalism’s grasp. The debate transcends one man’s fall—it’s whether weaponized “free speech” is right or ruse, if society survives bigotry as entertainment. Discomfort is not injustice; real compassion heals the wounded. But for the revolutionary, it’s the spark to overthrow the decayed order Kirk defended. Let him be mourned, but let us build anew from the ashes.  

References

Associated Press. (2025, September 10). Charlie Kirk, who helped build support for Trump among young people, dies after campus shooting. AP News. https://apnews.com/article/8357c3d102de09e3320fde761258131a

The Guardian. (2025, September 10). Charlie Kirk, Trump ally and right-wing activist, shot dead at Utah university. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2025/sep/10/charlie-kirk-shot-utah

PBS NewsHour. (2025, September 11). High-powered rifle recovered from Utah campus where Kirk’s killer was able to blend in. PBS. https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/high-powered-rifle-recovered-from-utah-campus-where-kirks-killer-was-able-to-blend-in

Jünger, E. (1993). The Worker: Dominion and form (J. Neugroschel, Trans.). Northwestern University Press. (Original work published 1932)

Jünger, E. (2004). Storm of steel (M. Hofmann, Trans.). Penguin. (Original work published 1920)

Harvey, D. (2007). A brief history of neoliberalism. Oxford University Press.

Bell, D. (1976). The cultural contradictions of capitalism. Basic Books.

Scruton, R. (2017). Conservatism: An invitation to the great tradition. All Points Books.

Wednesday, 10 September 2025

Cannot Blame Them for Demanding to Bombard the Headquarters

Cannot Blame Them for Demanding to Bombard the Headquarters 


Across Asia, the rumble of discontent is no longer metaphorical. Recent riots and protest actions show that citizens are literally “bombarding” the headquarters of governance—institutions long infested by injustice and corruption. From Indonesia to Nepal, and even in the Philippines, people are rising not merely to voice dissatisfaction but to demand accountability, reform, and justice that decades of rhetoric have failed to deliver. 

The dynamics of these uprisings echo lessons from history. In early Cultural Revolution China, a commentary in Renmin Ribao observed that some leading comrades, from the central to local levels, had adopted “the reactionary stand of the bourgeoisie,” suppressing popular movements and imposing a “white terror.” They “stood facts on their head and juggled black and white, encircled and suppressed revolutionaries, stifled opinions differing from their own… puffed up the arrogance of the bourgeoisie and deflated the morale of the proletariat.” The warning was stark: when elites resist genuine social energy, they demoralize the masses and deepen systemic corruption. 

Today, Asia faces an eerily similar pattern. 

In Indonesia, widespread protests erupted in August 2025, fueled by rampant corruption and growing economic inequality. Students and ordinary citizens clashed with security forces, resulting in fatalities, as demonstrators demanded an end to government indifference. Public outrage led to the replacement of five cabinet ministers, including Finance Minister Sri Mulyani Indrawati, yet protests persist, highlighting systemic failures that superficial reshuffles cannot resolve. Much like the Chinese commentary warned, half-measures that maintain the status quo only inflate the arrogance of the ruling elite while leaving the public frustrated and powerless. 

In Nepal, the scale of the uprising was extraordinary. In September 2025, Prime Minister K.P. Sharma Oli resigned amid violent anti-corruption protests triggered by a government-imposed social media ban. Predominantly led by Gen Z activists, these protests escalated after security forces killed at least 19 demonstrators, sparking widespread arson—including the burning of the parliament building. Social media campaigns like “NepoKid” exposed the lavish lifestyles of political elites’ children amid widespread poverty, igniting public anger. The situation mirrors the historical observation: suppressing dissent and prioritizing elite privilege over justice fuels rebellion rather than quelling it. 

In the Philippines, public outrage peaked after revelations of massive corruption in flood-control projects. Billions of pesos meant to protect citizens from flooding were siphoned off through kickbacks involving politicians and contractors. Though President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. launched an anti-corruption campaign, many argue that token measures will not dismantle entrenched networks of elite profiteering. Once again, history warns that half-hearted reform only strengthens public resentment and empowers those exploiting systemic weakness. 

The common thread connecting these uprisings is unmistakable: citizens have lost trust in political institutions. They have grown weary of rehashed statements, symbolic gestures, or restrained protests that fail to address systemic injustice. As the Mao's commentary cautioned, when elites adopt reactionary stances and suppress genuine popular movements, they not only stifle progress but also “inflate the arrogance of the bourgeoisie and deflate the morale of the proletariat.” Southeast Asia’s masses, however, are refusing to be deflated. 

However, the difference is striking: in Nepal and Indonesia, the people possessed a raw, combustible energy—they chose to confront the corrupt directly, literally “bombarding the headquarters” of power rather than sitting quietly and pleading with authorities under the pretense of faith in the law and due process. There was a fire to their outrage, an immediacy that demanded accountability and action, a refusal to defer justice to distant bureaucratic procedures or symbolic gestures. The anger was direct, unapologetic, and historically consequential; it forced those in power to reckon with the demands of the people in real time. 
Filipinos, by contrast, have long relied on institutional and symbolic channels to vent grievances—whether through civil society campaigns, social media activism, petitions, marches, or appeals to legal mechanisms. These forms of protest reflect a deeply ingrained faith in law, due process, and the mechanisms of democratic governance. They have historically provided safety, legitimacy, and continuity, especially in societies wary of violent confrontation. Yet this reliance has shaped the very character of dissent: orderly, mediated, and constrained by procedural norms. 

Still, the yearning exists among Filipinos to act with the same intensity and immediacy seen in Indonesia and Nepal, where public anger has, at times, escalated into movements that toppled governments or forced drastic reforms. Beneath the surface of resignation lies a deep well of frustration—a recognition that symbolic gestures are not enough, that corruption and abuse require more than hashtags, rallies, or press conferences to uproot. And yet, time and again, collective outrage in the Philippines is absorbed and diffused into the rhythms of elections, media spectacles, civil society forums, and the fleeting churn of digital platforms. The result is dissent that becomes performative: visible but contained, cathartic but rarely transformative. It is a ritual of outrage where citizens chant, march, and post, only for their voices to fade as the machinery of politics reasserts itself. Worse, when protests are reduced into bite-sized, consumable forms—hashtags, brief video clips, fiery commentary posts—they become part of the attention economy, easily overshadowed by entertainment, scandal, or the next trending outrage. The moral weight of grievances is diminished, leaving citizens with the sense that they have spoken out, yet little has changed.

If the yearning for genuine action truly exists, why does it not breach the parameters of symbolic dissent? Part of the answer lies in history: Filipinos have been conditioned by the legacies of authoritarian repression, counterinsurgency, and the co-optation of movements by elites. Protest has long been tolerated—up to a point. Marches are allowed as long as they remain within designated spaces; criticisms are aired as long as they are framed as opinion, not disruption, worse, not even criticism at all. Crossing these lines has often meant violent dispersals, arrests, or even killings. The boundary is thus clear, and fear of reprisal keeps many within it.
Another factor is the entanglement of dissent with electoral politics. Mass anger often finds its outlet in voting, which is framed as the “legitimate” and safe means of change. Politicians, ever aware of this, are quick to ride on public discontent, promising reforms during campaigns only to fold back into the system once in power. The cycle repeats: outrage, elections, disillusionment, and once again, muted outrage.
Finally, there is the question of livelihood and survival. For many Filipinos, the costs of sustained protest—time away from work, risk of retaliation, exposure to harassment—are simply too high. Symbolic dissent becomes the safer choice: to rage online, to march for a day, to sign a petition, and then return to the immediate struggle of earning a living.

The paradox is stark: the yearning for decisive, transformative action is real, but the structures of power, fear, and everyday survival keep it fenced in. To go beyond the parameter requires not just outrage, but organization; not just hashtags, but sustained movements that can withstand repression and resist co-optation. Without this, dissent remains what the powerful expect it to be—loud, visible, but ultimately containable.

Nevertheless, these protests are a clear signal that governments ignoring deep-seated corruption and inequality risk far more than civil unrest—they risk losing legitimacy entirely. Citizens are demanding decisive action, transparency, and accountability. Superficial reforms, like the superficial reshuffles of ministers or symbolic investigations, will not suffice. The public is, metaphorically—and at times literally—“bombarding the headquarters.” And history teaches us, as the Chinese commentary underscored, that when the people rise against injustice, their cause is morally justified and historically inevitable. 

To dismiss these movements as disorderly or irrational is to misunderstand a fundamental truth: when governance fails repeatedly and institutions serve the few at the expense of the many, the people have little recourse—and little patience left. Asia’s citizens are wide awake.

And frankly, it is hard to blame them.  

When Corruption Becomes the Infrastructure: After the Senate Probe on Anomalous Public Works by Scrupulous Contractors and Bureaucrats

When Corruption Becomes the Infrastructure: 
After the Senate Probe on Anomalous Public Works
by Scrupulous Contractors and Bureaucrats

The Senate’s latest hearings on anomalous flood control projects are exposing something far deeper than ghost projects, padded contracts, or the shady practice of “licenses for hire.” What is coming into view is an entrenched system where public works—one of the single largest line items in the national budget—is treated not as a vehicle for development but as a vast reservoir of rent-seeking and political patronage. The testimonies of contractors have peeled back the curtain on an ecosystem sustained by cartels of favored builders, district engineers who act as gatekeepers, and politicians who channel funds to projects that exist more on paper than on the ground.

Led by the Senate Blue Ribbon Committee, the probe has zeroed in on the government’s flood control program—an initiative meant to protect lives, livelihoods, and communities, but now revealed as a lucrative feeding ground for corruption. Senators have said that billions of pesos in public funds may have been misused, siphoned off through ghost projects that were never built, substandard works that crumbled under the weight of the most recent floods, and “licenses for hire” that gave unqualified contractors official cover to bid on state contracts. Every session of the inquiry has added new names, details, and documents to a growing record that points to a deliberate scheme: personalities in government and private business colluding to plunder the state under the guise of protecting it.

Among those in the spotlight are district engineers and contractors such as Discaya, Arevalo, Alcantara, and Hernandez, accused by senators and whistleblowers alike of acting as “economic saboteurs.” They are charged not just with siphoning funds but with endangering the public by leaving communities vulnerable to flooding. The hearings have painted a picture of an industry where the reward lies not in building durable levees or drainage systems, but in cutting corners, inflating costs, and splitting commissions. Behind each failed flood barrier is a profit margin, behind every washed-out road a handshake deal. And behind it all, a political apparatus that approves, defends, and benefits from this corruption.

That lawmakers themselves could be implicated should surprise no one. Infrastructure allocations rarely move without the nod of legislators, and flood control projects, like farm-to-market roads or multipurpose halls, have long been treated as a convenient cover for pork-barrel politics. In this sense, the Senate probe is not just about individual contractors or engineers—it is a mirror reflecting back the complicity of an entire system where public money is routinely traded for political loyalty and private gain.

And yet, even as the committee tightens its net, those implicated have sought to deny, deflect, and feign ignorance, pointing fingers at one another to escape responsibility. Their defenses ring hollow, especially at a moment when governments across Asia are facing popular protests demanding accountability “by the fist” rather than through the slow grind of institutions. The Philippine Senate, by contrast, insists on “due process,” but the challenge is whether such hearings can deliver more than headlines and soundbites. Will they expose the machinery of corruption or merely recycle the spectacle of inquiry without consequence?

For what is being uncovered here is not corruption in the conventional sense of isolated bribery or kickbacks. It is something far more structural and pervasive: the very architecture of corruption itself. Flood control projects, like roads and bridges before them, have become the chosen instruments for siphoning off public funds through mechanisms so entrenched they operate as part of the bureaucracy’s standard operating procedure. What is at stake in these hearings is not just the exposure of irregularities, but a reckoning with how infrastructure—supposedly the backbone of national progress—has been captured, weaponized, and hollowed out to serve private networks of power.

A Playbook of Fear and Compliance

The Senate hearings have revealed not only the scale of financial irregularities but also the murky moral terrain in which contractors and engineers operate. Beneath the headlines of ghost projects and padded contracts lies a subtler, more insidious reality: participation in corruption is rarely a matter of simple choice. It unfolds in a climate shaped by fear, coercion, and the grinding logic of survival within a captured bureaucracy. The testimonies of contractors and DPWH insiders do not merely expose fraudulent acts; they reveal how individuals are drawn—sometimes reluctantly, sometimes willingly—into a machinery that rewards compliance and punishes resistance.


Mark Allan Arevalo of Wawao Builders embodies this tension. He painted himself as a reluctant participant, claiming that his firm’s license was “forcibly used” in ghost flood control projects. On the surface, this sounds like a story of victimhood—a small contractor caught in the crossfire of shadowy officials and greedy intermediaries. Yet a closer look reveals a harsher reality: whether Wawao’s license was coerced or not, the company still participated in the scheme, providing a veneer of legitimacy to projects that otherwise might not have existed. Lending a license—even under duress—is not a neutral act; it becomes part of the infrastructure of corruption itself. In effect, Wawao was both a victim and an enabler, caught in a system where the line between survival and complicity is nearly invisible.

Arevalo’s admission that he cooperated “out of fear” underscores the precarious position contractors occupy in the provinces. These are not simply businessmen bidding for public works; they are players trapped in a shadow game, where refusal could mean stalled projects, legal obstacles, or arbitrary interference from DPWH insiders. Compliance, whether voluntary or coerced, ensures that the cycle of corruption continues unabated.

The testimony of DPWH engineer Brice Hernandez further illuminates this climate of fear. Hernandez admitted to accepting sealed boxes of money “as instructed” by his predecessor—an act he framed not as a decision, but as an obligation within a chain of command. Money passes hand to hand, instructions are followed blindly, and responsibility is diffused—yet the effect is the same: projects are manipulated to funnel benefits to insiders while public resources vanish. Fear is the cement, but complicity is the brickwork, and together they hold up a crooked structure that leaves communities vulnerable to floods, delays, and failed infrastructure.

Ultimately, the Wawao case is a microcosm of a larger pattern. It shows that in the Philippines, the machinery of public works is more than mismanagement or negligence; it is a carefully orchestrated network where even those coerced into participation bear responsibility. Survival may demand complicity, but the cost is a nation whose rivers, canals, and floodways serve the pockets of the powerful rather than the people they are meant to protect.

The Discaya Billion-Peso Puzzle

Meanwhile, Pacifico “Curlee” Discaya and his wife Sarah took the hearings a step further, not only naming names of lawmakers and DPWH officials who allegedly demanded cuts ranging from 10 to 25 percent of flood control project costs but also attempting to position themselves as reluctant participants in a corrupt system. Yet their narrative is riddled with contradictions. Initially, Curlee downplayed corruption in his affidavit, giving the impression that he and his wife had largely escaped demands for payoffs. Later, under Senate questioning, he admitted that officials during the Duterte administration did indeed seek commissions, highlighting the same climate of coercion described by Mark Allan Arevalo.

In one contentious moment, Discaya identified DPWH District Engineer Art Pascual (deceased) as someone who allegedly solicited funds. This earned sharp criticism from lawmakers, who pointed out the ethical and logical problem of accusing a person who could no longer respond. Beyond that, the Discayas faced grilling for inconsistencies between their affidavit and live testimony, raising questions about how much of their story was truth, self-preservation, or calculated narrative.

The financial picture painted during the hearings, however, is impossible to ignore. The eight companies owned by the Discayas saw revenues skyrocket during Duterte’s term: from ₱99 million in 2016 to ₱1 billion in 2017, then to ₱12–13 billion in 2018–2019, dipping slightly to ₱11.5 billion in 2020, before rebounding to ₱16 billion in 2021 and peaking at ₱20 billion in 2022. Deputy Speaker Janette Garin sharply questioned the morality of this windfall, contrasting the Discayas’ meteoric profits with the economic suffering of ordinary Filipinos during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Discaya attempted to qualify these figures, insisting that the reported amounts reflected only gross revenues and not net profits, citing operational expenses and losses in certain projects. Yet whether gross or net, the scale of these revenues leaves little doubt that the Discayas were not mere victims of a rigged system—they were both beneficiaries and casualties of the same game. Their plea to become state witnesses may be less about justice than survival: an attempt to navigate a system that rewards compliance, punishes defiance, and ensures that even the powerful must play by the unwritten rules of coercion and complicity.

In short, the Discaya saga exposes a grim truth: in a country where infrastructure contracts are both lifelines and leverage, even those who claim victimhood often emerge as the biggest winners, complicit in a system that thrives on fear, obedience, and carefully calibrated self-interest.

So Much for “Bureaucrat Capitalists”:
The Politicians’ Dance of Denial

The Discaya couple’s testimony was nothing if not explosive. Pacifico “Curlee” Discaya and his wife Sarah alleged that both DPWH officials and sitting congressmen routinely demanded 10 to 25 percent “commissions” from flood control projects awarded to their companies. According to the couple, compliance was not optional: refusal could lead to project sabotage, including mutual termination agreements or right-of-way problems that would stall implementation indefinitely. In a system designed to coerce obedience, even the most successful contractors are trapped between legal compliance and bureaucratic extortion. Out of fear for their families and employees, the Discayas offered themselves as state witnesses, hoping protection would shield them from retaliation.

Yet, predictably, the lawmakers named in the hearings were quick to issue sweeping denials. Among them:

• Roman Romulo (Pasig)
• Jojo Ang (Uswag Ilonggo Partylist)
• Patrick Michael Vargas (Quezon City)
• Juan Carlos “Arjo” Atayde (QC)
• Nicanor “Nikki” Briones (Agap Partylist)
• Marcelino “Marcy” Teodoro (Marikina)
• Florida Robes (San Jose del Monte, Bulacan)
• Eleandro Jesus Madrona (Romblon)
• Benjamin “Benjie” Agarao Jr.
• Florencio Gabriel Bem Noel (An-Waray Partylist)
• Leody “Ode” Tarriela (Occidental Mindoro)
 • Reynante “Reynan” Arogancia (Quezon)
• Marvin Rillo (QC)
• Teodorico “Teodoro” Haresco (Aklan)
• Antonieta Yudela (Zamboanga Sibugay)
• Dean Asistio (Caloocan)
• Marivic Co-Pilar (QC)

Also mentioned was former Office of the Presidential Assistant for the Visayas Undersecretary Terrence Calatrava, showing that this alleged network extended across multiple administrative layers.

The DPWH officials allegedly involved included:
• Virgilio Eduarte (Region V)
• Ramon Arriola III (Unified Project Management Offices)
• Henry Alcantara (Bulacan 1st District)
• Robert Bernardo (Undersecretary)
• Aristotle Ramos (Metro Manila 1st DEO)
• Edgardo Pingol (Bulacan Sub-DEO)
• Michael Rosaria (Quezon 2nd DEO)

According to the Discayas, many officials explicitly claimed that funds were intended for Zaldy Co, insisting on a minimum cut of 25 percent—a staggering demand that frames this as more than opportunistic graft. This was a structured, systemic extraction, not sporadic bribery.

Yet the public spectacle of denials continues. Lawmakers threatened libel suits, issued indignation-laced statements, and attacked the credibility of the whistleblowers rather than address the structural allegations. But credibility cuts both ways. In a country where bidding for government contracts has long operated under shadow rules, the question is simple: is it more believable that dozens of contractors conspired to slander sitting lawmakers, or that the time-honored practice of “SOP” in infrastructure continues to thrive under successive administrations?

What the Discaya testimony shows is a network where fear, coercion, and bureaucratic power intersect, forcing even the most prominent contractors into compliance. In the shadowed corridors of DPWH offices and congressional staff rooms, infrastructure projects are not just public works—they are currency, leverage, and survival mechanisms in a system that benefits insiders while keeping the public in the dark.

Plunder by Design?

What emerges from these hearings is not isolated graft but a national racket, a structural web of coercion and profiteering that transforms public infrastructure into private treasure. Ironically, flood control—a function meant to protect citizens and communities—has itself become a floodgate for plunder. With billions of pesos allocated yearly, projects can be padded, delayed, or ghosted entirely, yet still serve as conduits for commissions, kickbacks, and political leverage.

The Discayas’ testimony is especially illuminating. Their admission that compliance with officials’ demands was the “only way” to continue winning projects underscores how deeply normalized these practices have become. Refusal is not merely frowned upon; it risks project sabotage through contrived mutual terminations, right-of-way obstacles, or administrative roadblocks. Fear and survival dictate participation, but participation, in turn, legitimizes a system that thrives on coercion.

Financial records only deepen the sense of imbalance. Eight Discaya-owned firms reportedly ballooned from ₱99 million in 2016 to ₱20 billion in 2022, highlighting that this “compliance” was not mere charity or coerced service—it was a highly lucrative, structured extraction embedded in government contracting. Gross revenue or net profits aside, the scale of these figures signals that contractors can prosper even as the machinery of governance enables and perpetuates corruption.

This is not merely a flaw in oversight or a few bad actors. The hearings reveal a system where corruption is the operating system—codified in SOPs, enforced through fear, and hidden behind bureaucratic and political layers. DPWH contracts are no longer just projects; they are instruments of control, where contractors, politicians, and officials all navigate a web of mutual dependency, coercion, and enrichment.

In this environment, infrastructure itself becomes a political and financial commodity, and the public—ostensibly the beneficiary—remains largely powerless, watching as both their money and their trust flow away in a tide of designed plunder.

"Expect the other wing trying to assume they're clean"

It would be naïve to view the flood control hearings as purely a moral reckoning. In the tangled theater of Philippine politics, testimonies like those of the Discayas are rarely straightforward; they are almost always weaponized. Not surprisingly, certain factions are already seizing this opportunity to “come clean,” or at least to posture as paragons of truth and reform, while quietly deflecting attention from their own complicity. The irony is palpable: many of the officials implicated, and even those accused of collecting commissions, are veterans of the Marcos-Duterte tandem. Yet partisan forces and self-styled “truth-seeking” vloggers are racing to portray the scandal as a problem exclusive to the current administration, airbrushing out the long lineage of corruption that preceded it.

Meanwhile, the Duterte years—particularly the much-hyped Build, Build, Build program—are hardly spared. The Discayas’ testimony underscores how contractors became major beneficiaries of systemic overpricing, padded contracts, and manipulated bidding processes. Their revenues skyrocketed from ₱99 million in 2016 to ₱20 billion in 2022, a staggering leap that tells its own story. Far from being the heroic saga of “nation-building” promoted in glossy brochures, the infrastructure boom was also a boom in profit extraction, siphoning off billions from projects that were supposed to safeguard communities. The uncomfortable truth is that this pattern is not confined to one regime. It is a cycle that recurs across multiple administrations, whether under Duterte, Marcos, or their predecessors.

What the flood control hearings reveal, then, is a dual reality. On one hand, there is the morality play: politicians, pundits, and influencers selectively highlight misconduct to score political points, using the scandal as ammunition in ongoing power struggles. On the other hand, there is the deeper systemic corruption baked into the machinery of governance itself, where contractors like the Discayas thrive and public officials ensure the game continues. The spectacle may be irresistible for those seeking headlines, but it risks obscuring the hard truth: Philippine infrastructure is ensnared in a cycle of fear, coercion, overpricing, and opportunism that transcends any single administration or party.

This is not just about ghost projects, commissions, or high-profile denials. It is about the structural reality of how infrastructure has been captured. When fear, patronage, and political expediency dominate, public works become both a tool of service and a conduit for private enrichment—and the public pays the price, not just in wasted pesos but in diminished safety and shattered trust. Flood barriers collapse under the first heavy rain, roads are dug up and repaved with suspicious regularity, bridges are built to nowhere. These outcomes are not the result of mere incompetence, as some officials would have us believe. They are the deliberate by-products of corruption: projects designed not to serve but to feed a syndicate.

If the Senate is serious, the investigation cannot stop at naming names or generating soundbites. The trail of evidence—financial statements, bidding records, contractor licenses—must be followed until it produces cases that can withstand scrutiny in court. Otherwise, the hearings will be remembered as yet another addition to the long Philippine tradition of exposés without convictions, scandals without accountability.

Flood control is supposed to protect communities from drowning. Instead, it has become the very means by which Filipinos are made to drown in corruption. The choice before the nation is stark: either dismantle the infrastructure of graft, or accept that every peso poured into rivers, canals, and levees will keep flowing back into the pockets of the powerful.

Tuesday, 9 September 2025

The Myth of "Socialism" in "National Socialism": Rhetorical Deception, Economic Privatization, and Hierarchical Authoritarianism

The Myth of "Socialism" in "National Socialism":
Rhetorical Deception, Economic Privatization,
and Hierarchical Authoritarianism


The ascent of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP) to power in 1933 was accompanied by a deliberate appropriation of socialist rhetoric, ostensibly to forge a Volksgemeinschaft—a unified “people’s community”—that promised to transcend class divisions and harness the means of production for national prosperity.

Yet, this narrative concealed a stark inversion of socialist tenets: rather than collectivizing resources for equitable distribution, the regime pursued policies that entrenched privatization, bolstered capitalist elites, and subordinated economic activity to a racialized, hierarchical moral order. Historians have long debunked the notion that National Socialism embodied genuine socialism, emphasizing instead its antagonism toward leftist ideologies and its alliances with industrial magnates. As Kristin Semmens, Associate Professor of History at the University of Victoria, aptly notes, “It was more a cynical trick of language and propaganda than a real commitment to socialist values.”

This note examines the ideological sleight of hand, economic practices, internal fissures, and transatlantic echoes of Nazi “socialism,” drawing on primary and secondary sources to reveal it as a facade for authoritarian capitalism.

I. Ideological Foundations: Socialism as Mask, Not Mission

The NSDAP’s 1920 “25-Point Program” is often cited as evidence of a supposed socialist component in early Nazism. Drafted by Anton Drexler and Adolf Hitler, the program included demands that superficially resembled socialist or left-populist policies: the “nationalization of all (previous) associated industries (trusts),” the abolition of “income unearned by work,” and land reform through “free expropriation for the purposes of public utility” (NSDAP 1920, Points 11–17). However, these points were deliberately vague, conditional, and—most importantly—racialized. From the outset, they were framed not as universal economic rights but as privileges for members of the Volksgemeinschaft, the racially defined “people’s community.”

By the early 1930s, Hitler himself clarified the limits of this so-called socialism. In a 1930 statement, he explained that “free expropriation” referred exclusively to “Jewish property speculation companies” and did not apply to German industrialists or landed elites. In other words, the policy was not an attack on capitalism but an extension of antisemitic scapegoating. This qualification reflected a consistent pattern: radical-sounding measures were hedged, racialized, or simply ignored in practice.

For Hitler and the Nazi leadership, “socialism” did not mean collective ownership of the means of production or class emancipation. Instead, the term was emptied of its Marxist content and redefined in racial-nationalist terms. In Mein Kampf, Hitler derided Marxist socialism as a “Jewish invention” designed to weaken the German nation, while simultaneously claiming that “true socialism” meant subordinating individual interests to the good of the racial community. The Nazi vision of socialism was thus not economic leveling, but moral and racial discipline: the individual existed to serve the Volksgemeinschaft, and private property was legitimate so long as it advanced the racial mission of the Reich.

This ideological sleight of hand inverted the logic of Marxist socialism. Where Marxism sought to overcome exploitation through class solidarity and the redistribution of economic power, Nazi “socialism” sanctified inequality by treating hierarchy—above all racial hierarchy—as natural and necessary. Social Darwinism, not egalitarianism, was its guiding principle. As Richard Evans notes, the Nazi conception of society “was not one of equality but one of function, in which every individual had a duty to fulfill the role assigned to him by the needs of the race”.

Pamela Swett underscores this point in her study of Nazi Germany’s economy and propaganda. Although the Nazi state intervened heavily—especially in preparation for rearmament and war—the fundamental structure of the economy remained capitalist: “The basic characteristics of a capitalist economy remained in place,” Swett writes, “with private ownership preserved and profit motives incentivized”. The “collective” invoked by the Nazis was never an egalitarian one but a stratified order where workers, peasants, and industrial magnates were bound together by a myth of racial destiny.

This explains why the Nazis defined themselves as bitter enemies of socialism in its Marxist or democratic forms. Independent socialist and communist parties were banned almost immediately after Hitler’s rise to power, their members arrested, imprisoned, or killed. As Eli Nathans observes, “Almost all socialists in Europe in the 1930s feared and hated the Nazi Party”, reflecting the fact that National Socialism’s use of the term “socialism” was not a sincere ideological affinity but a deliberate appropriation designed to mislead workers and undercut support for the left.

Thus, at its ideological foundation, National Socialism reveals itself as a movement that weaponized socialist rhetoric while hollowing out its content. It promised national solidarity but delivered racial hierarchy; it claimed to oppose exploitation but instead entrenched capitalist privilege. The “socialism” in National Socialism was never a program for economic emancipation but a mask—a propaganda device to mobilize resentment while preserving existing power structures under the guise of racial destiny.

II. Economic Realities: Privatization and the “Vampire Economy”

Although Nazi propaganda framed the Third Reich as a revolutionary regime that had broken with capitalist exploitation, its actual economic policy reinforced private property, elite enrichment, and the preservation of industrial monopolies. Far from dismantling the structures of German capitalism, the regime forged a mutually beneficial alliance with them, combining authoritarian political control with continued private profit-making.

Between 1934 and 1938, the Nazi state undertook a wave of privatizations unprecedented in interwar Europe. State-owned shares in major financial institutions—including Commerzbank (57 million RM), Deutsche Bank (50 million RM), and Dresdner Bank (141 million RM)—were sold off, alongside interests in steel, mining, and transport firms such as Vereinigte Stahlwerke and Hamburg-Südamerikanische Dampfschifffahrts-Gesellschaft. The total value of privatizations reached approximately 595.5 million Reichsmarks, representing 1.37% of fiscal revenues. In comparative perspective, this level of privatization was striking, given that other European states at the time (e.g., France, Britain) were nationalizing sectors of their economies to deal with the Great Depression.

Economist Germà Bel argues that Nazi privatizations were “part of an intentional policy with multiple objectives” rather than an accident of fiscal management. These sales raised immediate state revenue, reduced administrative burdens, and—crucially—rewarded loyal corporate actors and built political patronage networks between the Nazi state and big business. The policy thus reveals the pragmatism of Nazi economic management: where socialist rhetoric suggested nationalization and redistribution, the reality was reprivatization and elite consolidation.

Large conglomerates such as Krupp, Thyssen, IG Farben, and Siemens flourished under this arrangement. They received lucrative state contracts for rearmament and infrastructure, while retaining autonomy over ownership and profits. As Peter Hayes has shown, IG Farben in particular became “an indispensable partner” of the regime, both benefiting from and facilitating Nazi policies of expansion and genocide. In this sense, Nazi “socialism” represented not the abolition of capitalist elites but their incorporation into a racialized authoritarian order.

Yet the autonomy of these businesses was not absolute. Guenter Reimann’s The Vampire Economy (1939), based on firsthand accounts of German entrepreneurs, captured the paradox of Nazi capitalism: businessmen retained formal ownership but operated under suffocating political and bureaucratic oversight. “We still make sufficient profit, sometimes even large profits,” one businessman lamented, “but we never know how much we are going to be able to keep”. The state dictated prices, wages, raw material allocations, and investment priorities, subordinating private initiative to the goals of rearmament and war preparation.

Despite this pervasive intervention, the profit motive was not abolished. Rather, it was “harnessed as a tool for the consolidation of Nazi Party power”. The Nazi regime relied on capitalists to maximize efficiency and innovation, but stripped them of political independence, creating what Tim Mason later described as a “primacy of politics” over economics. The effect was a hybrid system: privately owned but state-directed, combining capitalist incentives with authoritarian coordination.

This model resembled Mussolini’s corporatism in Italy more than any socialist experiment. It rejected laissez-faire liberalism, since the state constantly intervened, but it also rejected collectivist socialism, since ownership and profits remained in private hands. As Maxine Y. Sweezy observed in 1941, “The practical significance of the transference of government enterprises into private hands was thus that the capitalist class continued to serve as a vessel for the accumulation of income”. The result was neither socialism nor free-market capitalism, but an authoritarian variant of capitalism in which profit-making was subordinated to the racial and militarist imperatives of the state.

Adam Tooze’s influential study The Wages of Destruction (2006) reinforces this conclusion. He argues that Nazi economic policy was driven less by a coherent economic doctrine than by the demands of rearmament, racial expansion, and war mobilization. The privatizations of the 1930s, he notes, were not aberrations but consistent with a regime that needed capitalist efficiency and compliance to meet its strategic goals.

In this sense, the Nazi economy embodied what one might call “authoritarian capitalism”: private ownership maintained as a reward for loyalty, profits guaranteed through state contracts, and autonomy curtailed whenever it conflicted with the priorities of the racial state. Far from dismantling capitalism, National Socialism reconfigured it into a vampiric system that drained private initiative for militaristic and genocidal ends—hence Reimann’s evocative metaphor of the “vampire economy.”

III. Internal Conflicts: Strasserism and the Purge of “German Socialism”

Not all within the NSDAP accepted Hitler’s pragmatic embrace of capitalist elites or his racial fixation. A radical faction, most prominently represented by the brothers Gregor and Otto Strasser, pressed for an authentically “socialist” orientation within National Socialism—one rooted in economic redistribution, corporatist reform, and worker empowerment. This so-called “Strasserism” represented a powerful alternative in the Party’s northern organization, provoking deep ideological fissures that culminated in bloodshed.

Gregor Strasser frequently denounced Hitler’s alliances with German industrialists and Junker landlords. In 1926 he declared: “We are socialists. We are enemies, mortal enemies, of the present capitalist economic system with its exploitation of the economically weak… and we are determined under all circumstances to abolish this system!”

The Strassers’ program included the nationalization of key industries, agrarian reform to dismantle landed estates, and a corporatist structure where workers and employers would jointly manage industries under state guidance. Otto Strasser’s 1926 Draft Program proposed enterprises divided into three shares: 49% state, 10% workers, 41% private owners. This aimed to curb monopolistic cartels while preserving some private initiative.

Unlike Hitler, who defined “socialism” in racial terms as the subordination of individual interests to the Volksgemeinschaft, the Strassers defined it as an economic project: worker empowerment, redistribution, and corporatist management. Otto later described his ideal system in Germany Tomorrow (1940) as a “federation of free producers,” harmonizing labor and capital without abolishing private property.

The Strasser brothers also diverged from Hitler on antisemitism. Like many völkisch nationalists of the time, Otto and Gregor criticized “Jewish finance capitalism,” but they did not embrace Hitler’s racial and exterminationist worldview. Otto Strasser, in particular, rejected the reduction of all social and economic ills to Jewishness. In his memoir Hitler and I (1940), Otto recalled challenging Hitler directly: “Why always the Jew? Why not the capitalist, why not the exploiter, regardless of race?” 

For Otto, antisemitism was a rhetorical weapon rather than the central axis of politics. He supported a form of cultural segregation—what he once described as “Jewish autonomy within ghettos”—but opposed Hitler’s obsession with a racial struggle culminating in annihilation (Stachura 1975, pp. 115–16). This made him an outlier within the NSDAP, where antisemitism was increasingly becoming the core of Hitler’s ideology.

Ian Kershaw notes that Otto Strasser’s rejection of Hitler’s racial antisemitism was one of the irreconcilable differences that pushed him out of the Party in 1930. “For Otto, the Jew was a convenient scapegoat for finance capitalism,” Kershaw writes, “but for Hitler the Jew was the root of all evil, a metaphysical enemy whose destruction was a prerequisite for national rebirth”.

This divergence came to a head in 1930, when Otto Strasser confronted Hitler over his economic compromises and antisemitism. When Otto pressed for nationalization and profit-sharing, Hitler snapped: “That’s Marxism, Bolshevism, pure and simple! Do you think I’m stupid enough to destroy the economy?”

When Otto challenged Hitler’s fixation on Jews as Germany’s enemy, Hitler erupted again: “The Jew is the ferment of decomposition. He is the parasite within the nation. If we remove the Jew, we remove the greatest obstacle to our national revival.”

This exchange underlined the irreconcilable gulf: Otto sought a nationalist-socialist reformism aimed at economic justice, while Hitler pursued a racial utopia built on extermination and alliance with elites. By 1932, Gregor Strasser resigned his Party posts, disillusioned by Hitler’s deals with industrialists. Otto broke away completely, founding the Schwarze Front (Black Front) to promote his alternative vision of “German socialism.” But both men were ultimately marginalized.

The decisive moment came with the Night of the Long Knives (30 June–2 July 1934). Gregor Strasser was assassinated, eliminating the most prominent internal advocate of socialist reform. Otto, in exile, survived but remained politically irrelevant. The purge not only destroyed the SA’s “second revolution” faction but also closed the door on Strasserite opposition.

Richard Evans captures the significance: “The liquidation of Gregor Strasser and the sidelining of Otto symbolized the definitive triumph of Hitler’s antisemitic, authoritarian vision over any genuine attempt to fuse nationalism with social reform”.

The Strasser brothers reveal what “German socialism” could have meant: redistribution, corporatism, and agrarian reform within a nationalist framework. But their moderation on antisemitism and their hostility to capitalist elites clashed fatally with Hitler’s project. By 1934, National Socialism was purged of its “socialist” elements, reduced to a racial-imperialist authoritarianism in which capitalism survived intact, serving the ends of the Reich.

IV. The Volksgemeinschaft and the Nullification of Class Struggle

At the heart of Nazi ideology stood the Volksgemeinschaft—the “people’s community”—a mythical construct that promised to dissolve the fractures of Weimar society into a single, racially unified body. This ideal was not a concrete socioeconomic program but a propaganda tool, designed to displace class conflict with racial solidarity and to bind workers and employers alike to the destiny of the Reich.

The Nazi rise to power in 1933 was accompanied by the systematic dismantling of independent working-class institutions. Trade unions were abolished on May Day 1933, and their leaders arrested or sent to concentration camps. In their place, the regime created the Deutsche Arbeitsfront (German Labor Front, DAF), a vast state-controlled organization encompassing both workers and employers.

The DAF’s programs, such as Kraft durch Freude (“Strength Through Joy”) and Schönheit der Arbeit (“Beauty of Labor”), offered leisure cruises, subsidized holidays, and workplace improvements. Yet these were substitutes for collective bargaining and strike action, which were outlawed. Richard Evans observes: “The Nazi regime’s answer to the class question was not the empowerment of workers but the creation of a tightly controlled labor bureaucracy that turned them into passive beneficiaries of state-organized leisure and welfare.”

The Volksgemeinschaft thus redefined the worker not as a class subject with economic grievances but as a racial subject with duties to the nation. By eliminating the language of class struggle, the Nazis neutralized socialist and communist competitors while presenting themselves as the guarantors of social harmony.

Within this framework, property relations were reframed in moral and racial terms. Private property, whether productive (factories, estates, mines) or personal (homes, possessions), was legitimate only insofar as it served the folk. Hitler clarified this in a 1930 party circular: “Property is protected by the state only to the extent that it is used in accordance with the interests of the nation. Property used against the nation forfeits this protection.”

This conditionality underpinned Nazi policy. Jewish businesses were expropriated under the euphemism of Aryanization—not because the regime opposed capitalist ownership, but because Jews were defined as alien to the Volksgemeinschaft. By contrast, German industrialists retained their wealth and autonomy so long as they subordinated themselves to state goals, particularly rearmament.

In practice, there was no strict theoretical distinction between productive and personal property. Both were subordinate to the “racial state.” As Detlev Peukert noted: “The Volksgemeinschaft demanded not the abolition of private property but its functionalization: every form of property, from a workshop to a family home, had to be justified by its contribution to the racial community.”

Thus, property was not treated as a universal right but as a revocable privilege contingent on racial and political loyalty.

The paradox of the Nazi system was that capitalist structures survived intact, yet their legitimacy was recast in racial rather than economic terms. Industrial elites such as Krupp, Siemens, and IG Farben thrived under Nazi rule, not by virtue of market competition but because they pledged loyalty and resources to the Reich’s racial-imperialist project.

As Timothy Mason argued, the Nazi dictatorship represented a “dictatorship of the bourgeoisie” in political form, but it neutralized working-class opposition through repression and co-optation (Social Policy in the Third Reich, 1993, pp. 36–38). By diverting worker discontent into the promise of racial unity and scapegoating of Jews and “asocials,” the Nazis effectively abolished the language of exploitation.

Ian Kershaw summarizes this ideological inversion: “Class was denied, not resolved; inequality was sanctified as natural; and social conflict was displaced onto external or internal enemies. The Volksgemeinschaft was a political myth designed to bind a fragmented society into the pursuit of racial war.”

The Volksgemeinschaft was less a lived social reality than an ideological sleight of hand. Workers remained underpaid, farmers often struggled, and elites retained disproportionate influence. Yet the myth functioned powerfully: it erased class as a legitimate axis of politics, redirected grievances onto racial enemies, and justified authoritarian hierarchy as a natural order.

Far from embracing socialism, the Nazis elevated hierarchy as the essence of the social order. By redefining property as a duty to the folk and by abolishing the language of class, they revealed “socialism” in National Socialism as nothing more than a hollow slogan—masking a capitalist economy subordinated to racial Darwinism and militarist expansion.

VI. Dimitrov’s Case Against Nazism as Capitalism in Disguise

When Georgi Dimitrov stood before the Seventh World Congress of the Communist International in 1935, he defined fascism not as a mysterious aberration but as: “the open terrorist dictatorship of the most reactionary, most chauvinistic, and most imperialist elements of finance capital.”

Far from a mere slogan, this definition offered a concrete framework. Applied to Nazism, it reveals that Hitler’s regime was not a “third way” between capitalism and socialism, nor a revolutionary transformation of society, but the radical intensification of capitalist domination. Beneath the rhetoric of national rebirth and “socialism,” the Nazi system preserved private property, enriched industrial elites, destroyed workers’ movements, and expanded capital through imperialist war.

Dimitrov argued that fascism was not a spontaneous movement of the people, but a project funded and directed by capitalist elites in times of crisis. Nazi Germany is a textbook case. Industrial magnates such as Fritz Thyssen, Emil Kirdorf, Gustav Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach, and the directors of IG Farben poured millions of Reichsmarks into Nazi coffers. Their support was not accidental. In the face of the Great Depression, communist agitation, and rising labor unrest, Hitler promised what they needed: a mass movement to destroy Marxism, stabilize profits, and safeguard private property.

The pivotal meeting of February 20, 1933, just weeks before the Reichstag elections, demonstrates this alliance. In the Reichstag president’s palace, Hitler and Hermann Göring met with leading industrialists, securing three million Reichsmarks in donations to finance the Nazi campaign. Göring reassured the businessmen:
  • A Nazi victory would crush Bolshevism.
  • Private property would be protected.
  • Capitalists would find in Hitler a partner, not an enemy.
Within weeks, the Reichstag Fire Decree and the Enabling Act legalized dictatorship. As Dimitrov had predicted, fascism was not a challenge to capitalism but its “most reactionary” defense.

Dimitrov insisted that fascism’s first victims were not bankers but workers. Again, Nazi Germany confirmed this to the letter. On May 2, 1933, the day after celebrating a newly-invented “National Labor Day,” the Nazis stormed trade union offices, arrested leaders, and confiscated funds. Independent unions were replaced by the German Labor Front (DAF) under Robert Ley, which offered recreational programs like Kraft durch Freude but eliminated strikes, collective bargaining, and workplace democracy.

The message was clear: labor would be disciplined, not empowered. As Dimitrov wrote: “The accession to power of fascism is… the substitution of one state form of class domination of the bourgeoisie—bourgeois democracy—by another form—open terrorist dictatorship.”

Nazism did not abolish capitalist exploitation; it perfected it. Workers were regimented into a militarized economy, their rights abolished, while corporate profits soared. Firms like Krupp, Siemens, and IG Farben flourished as the state guaranteed them captive labor, suppressed wage struggles, and poured contracts into rearmament.

For Dimitrov, fascism could not be understood apart from imperialism. Nazi ideology of Lebensraum was both racial doctrine and economic program: the conquest of Eastern Europe would deliver farmland, oil, minerals, and cheap labor to German industry. IG Farben built vast synthetic fuel and rubber plants in occupied Poland, exploiting prisoners from Auschwitz in what Primo Levi called a “perfectly German compound of industry and extermination.” Krupp seized factories in the Ruhr and across occupied Europe. Siemens and Daimler-Benz used slave labor from concentration camps. Here Dimitrov’s warning became prophecy: “The development of fascism, and the fascist regime itself, are inseparably linked with the preparation of imperialist war.”

The Nazi war effort was thus both genocidal and capitalist: genocide cleared the land for German settlers and industry, while occupation funneled wealth to industrial monopolies. The war economy was not a deviation from capitalism but its violent acceleration under fascist dictatorship.

Perhaps the most obvious confirmation of Dimitrov’s analysis is the hollowness of Nazi “socialism.” Hitler himself had declared in 1926: “We are not socialists. We are the enemies of today’s socialists.”

The supposed “socialist” elements of the 1920 NSDAP program—profit-sharing, land reform, nationalization—were never implemented. Instead, the Nazis privatized industries that the Weimar Republic had nationalized during the crisis: railways, banks, shipyards, and mines were handed back to private owners.

The Nazi state did intervene in the economy, but not to socialize wealth—rather, to guarantee profits and direct production toward rearmament. Guenter Reimann’s contemporary study The Vampire Economy (1939) described how businesses operated under tight regulation but retained private ownership and profits. For capital, Nazism was not an enemy but a savior.

Later neo-Nazis like George Lincoln Rockwell of the American Nazi Party stripped the term “socialism” even further, reducing it to basic state services while affirming “free enterprise.” Thus, even the word itself survived only as propaganda, emptied of all economic meaning.

Nazism confirms Dimitrov’s definition in every respect:
  • It rose on the financing of capitalist elites.
  • It crushed workers’ movements and outlawed socialism.
  • It preserved and privatized capitalist property.
  • It expanded through imperialist war and plunder.
  • It cloaked all of this in nationalist and racial mythology.
Far from being a “socialist” revolution, Nazism was the naked truth of capitalism in crisis—exploitation defended through dictatorship, expanded through conquest, and sanctified through race.

Dimitrov’s insight—that fascism is not the negation of capitalism but its most brutal expression—remains one of the clearest tools for understanding the political economy of the Nazi regime. Nazism was capitalism unmasked: reactionary, chauvinistic, imperialist, and murderous.

VI. Conclusion: Lessons in Rhetorical Inversion

The history of National Socialism demonstrates how words can be emptied, inverted, and redeployed to mask exploitation. The invocation of “socialism” by the Nazis was not an accident or a misunderstanding—it was a deliberate act of rhetorical inversion. By cloaking authoritarian capitalism and racial hierarchy in emancipatory language, the Nazis redirected popular anger away from capitalist elites and toward scapegoated minorities, above all Jews.

From the beginning, this strategy was clear. The 25-Point Program of 1920 spoke of profit-sharing, land reform, and nationalization, yet these measures were racialized, conditional, and never implemented. Hitler himself clarified by 1930 that “expropriation” would apply only to Jews, not to German industrialists. By the time of the Night of the Long Knives in 1934, the purge of the Strasserite wing had eliminated even the possibility of genuine redistributive policies.

Instead, Nazi practice confirmed the opposite:
  • Privatization of banks, mines, and industry enriched corporate elites.
  • Industrial patronage from Krupp, Thyssen, and IG Farben underwrote the Nazi rise to power.
  • Suppression of unions and the creation of the German Labor Front nullified worker autonomy.
  • Volksgemeinschaft rhetoric erased class struggle by reframing inequality as racial duty.
As Guenter Reimann observed in The Vampire Economy (1939), businesses under Nazism retained ownership but only on condition of political loyalty: “We never know how much we are going to be able to keep.” The system preserved capitalism while stripping away its liberal protections, producing what he aptly termed a “vampire economy.”

Yet the myth of Nazi “socialism” did not vanish with Hitler’s defeat. It resurfaced in postwar neo-Nazi movements, especially the American Nazi Party of George Lincoln Rockwell, who hollowed the term further. For Rockwell, “socialism” meant little more than the provision of state services like police, military, and health care, while affirming “free enterprise.” What had once been a mask for authoritarian capitalism in Germany became, in the United States, a slogan entirely divorced from economic redistribution—“nightwatchman statism” for whites only.

In this sense, the Nazi rhetorical inversion bequeathed a durable tactic: the use of egalitarian language to legitimize systems of hierarchy. From postwar fascism to modern populist movements, the pattern persists. Leaders deploy the vocabulary of “freedom,” “democracy,” or “the people” while hollowing these concepts of substance and entrenching inequality beneath their banner.

Here Dimitrov’s 1935 definition remains prescient: “Fascism is the open terrorist dictatorship of the most reactionary, most chauvinistic, and most imperialist elements of finance capital.”

Nazism confirmed this analysis not only in its sponsorship by industrialists and suppression of labor, but also in its imperialist expansion, which funneled wealth to monopolies through conquest and slave labor. The fraud of Nazi “socialism” was precisely the point: it distracted workers while securing capital.

The lesson is clear. Ideologies cannot be judged by their slogans alone. Words like “socialism,” “freedom,” or “democracy” can be hollowed out, inverted, and redeployed as masks for domination. The Nazis proved how effective such deception can be: mobilizing the masses with egalitarian rhetoric while preserving and intensifying capitalist exploitation and racial hierarchy.

To study this history is not simply “housekeeping” about the past—it is a safeguard for the present. By interrogating not only the words but the structures that movements build, we can expose manipulations before they take root. The enduring danger is not that fascism will return in the exact form of 1930s Germany, but that its rhetorical inversions—its ability to weaponize emancipatory language against emancipation itself—remain available to those who would revive hierarchy in modern dress.

Understanding the Nazi deception thus arms the people with a permanent lesson: judge movements not by their slogans, but by the realities they enforce.

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