STEMMING THE TIDE OF FASCISM IN OCCULTURE
Let Me Tell You Exactly Why I Am So Militant
“You are always calling a fascist anyone you don’t like, or, worse, anyone you feel threatened by because they are better than you at writing or content creation. I see you!”
I have heard this remark time and again from various sources, and it has become tiresome. Rather than repeat my position whenever it rears its head, I will use this space as my final response, so that whenever the inevitable accusation appears, I can simply dig this text back up and share it verbatim.
I am not going to name names, a habit I used to indulge in for clarity’s sake but one that, in hindsight, detracted from the bigger picture. Should I ever see the need to offer more details, relevant posts or videos are easy enough to find by anyone capable of minimal research.
However, this is my statement to the world, not any single individual.
The Great Marketplace of Accusations
Over the past few years, as my profile in the world of occulture has grown — from my earliest articles online to a modestly successful social media presence to a traditional publishing contract — I have heard that accusation repeated in various shapes and forms: that I cry “fascist” purely out of personal animus, or out of fear that better writers or content creators will steal whatever limelight I possess. This line of attack is not only laughable but deeply revealing of the intellectual void behind it. One could almost admire the creativity of those peddling it, if it did not so neatly highlight their complete disregard for genuine critical discourse.
It is no secret that the so-called “occultural marketplace” is a small and fractious corner of publishing, a realm of specialised subjects, esoteric curiosities, and niche conferences. Far from being flush with profits, it struggles even in the best of times to generate substantial revenue for its participants, who often juggle multiple roles and rely on entirely separate careers to make ends meet. Yet, in this tightly enclosed environment, there is an unspoken code that everyone must get along lest the minuscule gains be lost. Speaking ill of fellow authors or creators can risk personal relationships and, perhaps more cynically, future book sales. Morals and ethics tend to be sacrificed on the altar of self-preservation.
When I am accused of hysterically labelling colleagues as “fascists” to boost my career, the underlying assumption is that I either do not understand how delicate this economy is, or I have deliberately chosen to scuttle my own ship for a bit of cheap notoriety. Neither assumption makes sense to anyone who examines the situation with even a sliver of logical thinking.
This small, precarious world requires gentle self-censorship if one craves easy alliances and broad support. I have clearly chosen a different path, not because I have a thirst for sabotage, but because I consider it my responsibility to speak up when I see certain political and ideological tendencies creeping in under the guise of “spiritual exploration.”
The Empty Promises of a Thelemic Order
This willingness to blow the whistle is not new, nor is it born from envy of those who attained positions of influence. When I first began voicing my concerns about the creeping ultra-reactionary and sometimes outright fascistic elements in my corner of occulture — Thelema — I was told my criticisms were driven by jealousy. My supposed aim was to secure some coveted title or office within Ordo Templi Orientis (O.T.O.), a once-famed occult organisation that today, in my estimation, amounts to a moribund Aleister Crowley fan club with a dash of ritual cosplay thrown in for effect.
Anyone who has spent time or money chasing such ephemeral status can attest that there is no real power or prestige to be found behind the O.T.O.’s battered façade. The glamour is largely self-manufactured. I am in a position to speak with some authority on this, because I was once deeply involved — organising events, spreading the word, believing that there was something valuable in its structure. Over time, it became impossible to ignore that the veneer of sanctity and tradition masked an organisation fraught with political infighting, petty ambitions, and an alarming lack of introspection. Stepping away was neither an act of disenchantment alone nor a ploy for sympathy; it was a necessary departure once I realised that this environment was neither spiritually fulfilling nor intellectually honest.
In those days, nobody suggested that my complaints were a money-making ploy. Quite the opposite: I was derided as a “posh entitled cunt,” an accusation that felt as superficial as it was misdirected. The pre-pandemic world allowed me to thrive in a lucrative consulting career, with no need whatsoever to rely on blog posts or YouTube streams for financial survival. I had also enjoyed a successful music career before that, ensuring a stable enough foothold that I never had to consider turning my critiques into a source of quick income. My detractors in the O.T.O. and other circles recognised that I was not seeking to pad my bank account by criticising them. Their barbs struck at perceived snobbishness and class privilege but never once suggested I might be building a personal brand from condemnation.
Now that my circumstances have changed and I find myself writing and producing content as part of a new professional chapter, the criticism has conveniently shifted its form. Whereas before, I was lectured on my airs of superiority, now I am admonished for alleged desperation and greed.
It is comical how quickly the tune changes when one stands on principle and persists in pointing out troubling alliances and regressive ideologies.
Fascism in the Bloodstream: Growing Up in Italy
My dedication to exposing fascist sympathies in occulture stems from deeply personal experience. I grew up in Italy, where fascism is not merely a historical footnote but an ever-present spectre lurking in the background. The 1990s and 2000s were especially revealing: the lines between alternative music scenes, the broader subculture, and esoteric enclaves blurred to the point of forming one overlapping social reality. In that environment, I learned first-hand how easily certain corners of counterculture can become breeding grounds for reactionary extremism.
Anyone who studies modern geopolitics cannot ignore how authoritarianism is again on the rise, how the middle class is eroding, and how global wealth is increasingly concentrated in the hands of a microscopic elite. These developments do not emerge overnight but are shaped by cultural and intellectual shifts that take decades to ferment. One can trace this path of decline in literacy and critical thinking back to the Italy of the late 1980s and onwards, when Silvio Berlusconi — armed with a near-monopoly on private television, unlimited funds of questionable origin, and relationships with powerful foreign players (including the CIA) — reshaped the collective mindscape of an entire nation.
Berlusconi was a showman, offering cheap entertainment and glitzy news programs that sapped the population’s ability (and willingness) to engage with serious issues. In a sense, he was the prototype of the “friendly billionaire” politician, a media-savvy mogul with a populist veneer.
The rest of the world has since witnessed similar characters who ride a wave of sensationalism to high office, but in Italy, Berlusconi blazed that trail.
He benefitted from the geopolitical game of the Cold War, in which Italy was a linchpin for Western powers determined to contain the Soviet Union, a strategy that fuelled decades of political manipulation, covert operations, and manufactured crises. Those familiar with Italy’s “strategy of tension” in the 1970s know just how far governments and intelligence agencies were willing to go to maintain a certain status quo. This tension set the stage for Berlusconi’s ascent and, ultimately, for the emergence of a climate in which fascism could once again take root.
As a teenager stepping into the worlds of magick, spirituality, and Thelema, then moving further into the broad domain of occulture and alternative music3, I found myself surrounded by a curious blend of mysticism, creative experimentation, and reactionary politics. The subcultural spaces that birthed new musical ventures also harboured old prejudices, and it did not take long for me to recognise that we were not dealing with a benign fringe phenomenon. These fascistic undercurrents were strong and persistent, ready to transform esoteric exploration into a Trojan horse for authoritarian ideologies.
During those formative years, the growth of CasaPound in Rome became an ominous illustration of how easily far-right extremism could disguise itself behind edgy music events, lively gatherings, and literary circles.
The name “CasaPound” paid homage to Ezra Pound, the American poet whose sympathies for fascism were well-documented, and the group’s success in establishing a cultural and social base showed a disturbing flair for reinvention. While traditional neo-fascists struggled to appeal to younger generations, CasaPound set up hubs resembling leftist “centri sociali,” hosting concerts, debates, and community activities. The difference was the far-right ideology woven into every aspect, from reinterpretations of Tolkien to sci-fi debates staged to draw in the curious. This approach offered a stark alternative to both stale neofascist circles and the hardline communist enclaves, many of which championed a purely materialist worldview that left little room for any spiritual or esoteric interests.
By co-opting the aesthetics of underground culture — metal, goth, punk, and various strains of outsider art — CasaPound brought ultra-nationalist ideas into environments usually perceived as rebellious or iconoclastic. This metapolitical approach packaged extremist views in a subcultural wrapper, capitalising on the sense of alienation felt by many young people who wanted to be part of something counter-mainstream. As a young man who was drawn to esoteric study and heavily involved in goth and metal scenes, I couldn’t help but notice how fascist mythology was creeping into spaces that once offered refuge for society’s outsiders.
Time and again, concerts or reading groups that seemed purely artistic in nature morphed into soapboxes for nationalistic rhetoric, praising a supposed return to a mythical Roman grandeur.
CasaPound also became a beacon of “Traditionalist” thinking, placing on its ideological pedestal not only Ezra Pound but also figures such as René Guénon and, above all, Julius Evola — the latter a notorious reactionary whose work is now being revived and sanitised in certain corners of occulture once again.
This revival often recasts Evola as a misunderstood mystic rather than the staunchly authoritarian thinker he undeniably was, further illustrating how CasaPound managed to repackage ultranationalist ideals into an ostensibly cultured and forward-thinking framework. Peter Levenda and I discussed this here.
Moreover, the CasaPound’s selective treatment of authors like H. P. Lovecraft or J. R. R. Tolkien (the latter rejected xenophobia outright) bordered on intellectual dishonesty, twisting literary themes of cosmic dread or epic fantasy into justifications for divisive worldviews. Despite frequent accusations of violence or intimidation — allegations that have trailed CasaPound’s most visible members — the movement has managed to sanitise itself by hosting events that appear forward-thinking, inclusive, or merely entertainment-focused.
The same strategy, only expanded for the Anglophone world and played out via “Rosicrucian” podcasts, has been used to “flood the zone” in the past 10 years, precisely as planned by far-right strategist Steve Bannon.
CasaPound was not her direct cradle — she came up more squarely in post-fascist youth organisations — but the overlapping networks, events, and cultural references all contributed to normalising the presence of far-right extremism in the country’s capital. By the time she attained high office, much of the population had grown desensitised to such rhetoric, conditioned by Berlusconi-era television and the long shadow of Italy’s unresolved fascist legacy.
I am no professional historian. At best, I am someone who closely observes the endless echoes of history and notices how they reverberate through the subcultures in which I have spent much of my life.
It remains crucial for anyone unfamiliar with Italian history to recognise that fascism was not uprooted after Mussolini’s downfall. It went into partial hiding, biding its time and capitalising on cultural fractures that are rife in a relatively young nation cobbled together from disparate states. The “Italian identity” many take for granted was in no small part forced into being under the Fascist regime, and plenty of Italians have internalised the myths of order and national pride that fascism once sold. Berlusconi’s dismantling of critical thought, aided by decades of media control, has only hastened the reemergence of these sentiments in public life.
Standing Against the Tide
My decision to speak out against fascist influences, whether they manifest in mainstream politics or in the esoteric corners I frequent, was shaped by the reality in which I came of age.
For many Italians, such influences are simply part of the fabric of daily life. One grows up with them, learns to identify them, and often chooses whether to accept them or resist them. Resistance is not easy, since most institutions prefer to avoid the disruption that accompanies conflict. In the world of occult publishing, where reputations are fragile, and alliances are crucial, the pressure to keep one’s head down is immense.
Nevertheless, I refuse to remain silent. I have seen enough to know that fascism thrives when it is dismissed as a harmless curiosity or an impossible menace that belongs to a bygone era.
Whether the critics label me a jealous troublemaker, a profit-hungry opportunist, or an embittered relic of a defunct order, they do so at their own peril. The facts stand unaltered: fascism has poisoned segments of occulture, just as it has infiltrated other subcultures. If it is not held to account, it will keep growing in the shadows.
So here is my final word on the matter: yes, I will keep calling out fascism where I see it, not because it is a convenient marketing tool, nor because I feel threatened by someone else’s prowess as an author or a content creator, but because I recognise a historical pattern repeating itself. My commitment to this stance is neither new nor fickle; it stems from personal observation of Italy’s socio-political evolution, as well as from my involvement in various occult communities that have occasionally flirted with dark and authoritarian rhetoric. There is no position of power or prosperity worth compromising on that principle.
Anyone who thinks otherwise, or who believes it is all a game of pageantry and contrived feuds, is entitled to their scepticism.
But when the same allegations resurface, I will direct them here, to these words, where my stance remains as unambiguous as it is unwavering. This is not a conversation about me craving attention, nor is it a referendum on the petty battles of a niche marketplace.
It is a stand against a malignant force that has haunted modernity, found new pathways into our cultural bloodstream, and continues to threaten whatever freedoms we still possess.
