“Any attempt to understand the attraction which fascism exercises upon great nations compels us to recognize the role of psychological factors,” the German-Jewish social psychologist Erich Fromm asserted in 1941. Such factors are not specifically German or, say Italian, nor were they the manifestations of a unique historical era, now safely in the distant past. Not only can the malignant political-economic-ideological climates required for the flowering of fascism develop anywhere, so are its emotional dynamics present in the psyche of most human beings.
“We each have a Nazi within,” the Auschwitz survivor Edith Eger has written – pointing, in my observation, to a near-universal reality. Many of us harbor the seeds for hatred, rage, fear, narcissistic self-regard and contempt for others that, in their most venomous and extreme forms, are the dominant emotional currents whose confluence can feed the all-destructive torrent we call fascism, given enough provocation or encouragement.
All the more reason to understand the psychic sources of such tendencies, whose ground and nature can be expressed in a word: trauma. In the case of fascism, severe trauma.
Nobody is born with rabid hatred, untrammelled rage, existential fear or cold contempt permanently embedded in their minds or hearts. These fulminant emotions, when chronic, are responses to unbearable suffering endured at a time of utmost vulnerability, helplessness and unrelieved threat: that is, in early childhood.
The human infant enters the world with the implicit expectation of being safely held, seen, heard, physically protected and emotionally nourished, her feelings welcomed, recognzied, validated and mirrored. Given such an “evolved nest”, in the apt phrase of the psychologist Darcia Narvaez, we develop and maintain a strong connection to ourselves, a deeply rooted confidence in who we are, a trust in innate goodness present in the world and an openness to love within ourselves, as without. Trauma represents a disconnect from these healthy inclinations, in extreme cases a defensive denial of them as being too vulnerable to bear. And that, in essence, is what fascism is on the emotional level: a desperate escape from vulnerability.
Looking at the hideous demigod of fascism, Adolf Hitler, or at his present-day caricature Donald Trump, who is often compared to him – including some years ago by his current vice-presidential running mate, JD Vance – we find many remarkable characteristic similarities: relentless self-hypnotising mendacity, mistrust bordering on paranoia, devious opportunism, a deep streak of cruelty, limitless grandiosity, unhinged impulsivity, crushing disdain for the weak.
Both had grown up in homes headed by abusive fathers, with mothers impotent to defend their children. In Hitler’s case, the bright and sensitive child suffered merciless violence. Trump was subjected to the ruthless emotional dictatorship of a father, Fred Sr, who Mary, Donald’s psychologist niece, describes as a “sociopath”. “Donald Trump is a poster boy for trauma,” the eminent trauma psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk told me.
In both cases the rage and hatred represent eruptions of the forbidden and therefore repressed emotions of childhood and the compensations of a psyche pulverized into insignificance. In turn, as the biographer Volker Ullrich writes: “Hitler … gave the decisive signal for Germans to give free reign to their hatred and destructive desires.” He spoke to and promised to redeem those masses in his nation who also experienced themselves as threatened and insignificant – to “make them great again,” if you will.
“What they want,” he wrote, “is the victory of the stronger and the annihilation or the unconditional surrender of the weaker.” This fascistic drive to dominate is the unconscious rejection of the small child’s vulnerability and a defensive identification with the unassailable power of the abusive father.
What draws people to such leaders? On the socioeconomic plane, their own sense of exclusion, dislocation, grievance, marginalization, loss of place and meaning. On the emotional, psychological level, a trauma-induced absence of confidence in themselves and the drive to submit for protection to some person perceived as “strong.”
This is coupled with an urge to flee from responsibility by casting blame on some vulnerable yet vermin-like and threatening “other” – a Jewish, Muslim, Hispanic or Slavic person, say – who serves as the target of one’s ingrained hostility, the real sources of which rest in the deep infantile unconscious.
The American psychologist, Michael Milburn, has studied the childhood antecedents of rightwing ideological rigidity. His research confirms that the harsher the parenting atmosphere people were exposed to as young children, the more prone they are to support authoritarian or aggressive policies, such as foreign wars, punitive laws and the death penalty.
“We used physical punishment in childhood as a marker of dysfunctional family environment,” Milburn said. “There was significantly more support for the capital punishment, opposition to abortion and the use of military force, particularly among males who had experienced high levels of physical punishment, especially if they had never had psychotherapy.” I was intrigued by that last finding.
“Psychotherapy,” Milburn said, “speaks to a potential for self-examination, for self-reflection.” Self-reflection, something the fascist mentality cannot abide, can soften the heart.
Neuroimaging studies have shown that the amygdala, the tiny almond-shaped brain structure that mediates fear, is larger in people with more rightwing views. It is more active in those favoring strong protective authority and harboring a suspicion of outsiders and of people who are different. This is a telling finding, because we know that the development of the circuitry of the brain is decisively influenced by the child’s emotional environment in the early years.
“The monster Adolf Hitler, murderer of millions, master of destruction and organized insanity, did not come into the world as a monster” – so wrote the psychoanalyst Alice Miller. Fascism, in that sense, is an all too human phenomenon, an outcome of many influences salient among which, on the personal scale level, is the unspeakable suffering of the child.
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Gabor Maté is a public speaker and the author of five books published in 41 languages, most recently The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness and Healing in Toxic Culture
