Few political affiliations draw more stigma and ostracism than white nationalism and neo-Nazism. The fear and disdain these ideologies provoke make them a potent weapon to wield against political opponents. The Victorian Liberal Party’s 18-month internal conflict, centred on allegations of links to neo-Nazis, illustrates how damaging such accusations can be.
No one wants to be branded a Nazi, yet both sides of politics continue to flirt with the rhetoric of ‘identity politics’ that fuels such extreme manifestations. As they see it, you are defined by the group, or identity, to which you belong, in particular your gender, race, or sexual preference. Each side typically targets constituencies based on such identities.
Distanced themselves from the working class Australians who were expressing the same fears they had stoked
I know this personally because for six years of my teenage life, I embodied the most extreme version of the ‘identitarian right.’ My personal experience with racist nationalism positions me to argue that both progressivism and conservatism in Australia contribute to its resurgence. Moreover, libertarianism was not only the antidote to my own toxic beliefs, but is essential to countering the divisive nature of identity politics.
For most, being an ‘actual Nazi’ is unimaginable. This extremist, violent ideology requires more than mere exposure to certain ideas — it involves a process of radicalisation shaped by psychology, peer groups, and the surrounding culture. Here, I will focus on how culture and ideas drove my radicalisation, and how they continue to pose a risk to vulnerable young people. It is less autobiography and more cautionary tale.
The 9/11 attacks were a defining moment in my life. At 12 years old, I became captivated by history and politics, realising that events and ideas shaped the present and were in constant competition. This set me on a path of seeking where I fit in this world.
At school, teachers often portrayed Australia as a colonial oppressor, its culture irredeemably marred by the sins of white settlement and the White Australia Policy. Multiculturalism, they implied, was both penance and salvation. According to this narrative, Australia had no intrinsic culture, and what existed was enriched only by others. Progressives cast Australians – particularly white males like me – as oppressors. I was the villain in the story of my own country.
Meanwhile, the Howard government promoted multiculturalism and nationalism, tinged with anti-Islamic sentiment. Events like 9/11 and the Tampa crisis linked immigration to terrorism. John Howard’s refrain – “we will decide who comes to this country and the circumstances in which they come” – fuelled public fears. To my 12 year old self, growing up in Melbourne’s working-class northern suburbs with large Lebanese and Turkish populations, these narratives resonated. The progressive view vilified me for my identity, while the conservative view glorified an Australian identity under threat.
I naturally leaned toward conservatism but carried an anti-authoritarian streak, fuelled by the Iraq War’s WMDs deception. Together, these narratives primed me to adopt an ideology offering both belonging and an outlet for my growing xenophobia and distrust of the establishment.
In 2005, the Cronulla riots became the spark. At 14 I was seeking answers, and the media’s portrayal of Australia as inherently racist clashed with my own experiences. Conservative leaders, meanwhile, distanced themselves from the working class Australians who were expressing the same fears they had stoked. Disillusioned, I turned to the internet, where white nationalist forums offered an alternative worldview. Here, my conservative leanings devolved into outright racism. By embracing conspiracy theories, including a Jewish global agenda, my transformation into a neo-Nazi was complete.
For six years, I was deeply involved in this violent subculture, promoting its ideas online and on the streets. This period profoundly shaped me, for better and worse.
Both progressivism and conservatism in Australia contribute to its resurgence.
Thankfully, I began to change. Exposure to libertarian ideas during Ron Paul’s 2008 presidential campaign planted the seeds of a new worldview. Libertarian principles of non-aggression and individual liberty stood in stark contrast to my authoritarian beliefs, offering a path forward based on individualism, voluntary cooperation and mutual respect. It took two years to fully disentangle myself from neo-Nazism, but by 2010 I was free.
Determined to promote liberty I joined the Liberal Party, hoping to steer it away from identity politics and back toward classical liberalism. This hope was short-lived. After my past was exposed, I resigned – a blessing in disguise, given the party’s continued departure from principles of individual freedom.
Ten years later, I remain a libertarian, advocating for an ideology that values individuals as unique and capable of forging their own paths. Unlike progressivism and conservatism, which exploit fears and biases to create division, libertarianism fosters cooperation and mutual understanding. It champions less government interference, trusting that most people will live peacefully when left to their own devices.
Today’s political landscape is more polarised than it was in 2001. Identity politics, central to both the progressive left and conservative right, is the most dangerous driver of radicalisation. By creating ‘us vs them’ mentalities, it breeds resentment and hatred, ultimately leading to violence. The antidote is to focus on individuals, not groups. Libertarianism, which prioritises individual freedom and responsibility, is the ideological counterweight we desperately need. It is an idea whose time has come.
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Scott began his political career on the far-right but, repelled by identity politics and big government, he then found a political home as a libertarian. Now he champions grassroots activism and community building. An IT professional and father, he’s passionate about free speech, religious freedom, and parental rights.
