Perched in a sunlit, olive green treehouse, Guillermo detailed his dark Telegram chat history: how to print 3D guns, build pipe bombs and kill hitchhikers.

As a child, this weathered treehouse, nestled in an avocado tree, was his solace and shelter. But isolation, loneliness and unrestricted internet access during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic gave way to a new source of consolation: outrage.

Or, as Guillermo now puts it: “evil.”

The 21-year-old, who asked to only be identified by his first name due to doxing threats, said during that period he’d spend hours “trolling” on Twitter, where he’d often make fun of people who died or posted about their loss. He’d browse Instagram for bondage content, read neo-Nazi manifestos on 4chan and regularly trade messages with an Alabama man known as “Library” from his family home computer. Library eventually got apprehended by the FBI, and soon after, they tracked down Guillermo. He was in school; his frightened younger brother opened the door and said no one else was home.

Guillermo’s dad called the FBI back and told them his son “was just a dumb kid on the internet,” said Guillermo.

His story is a textbook case of online radicalization as hateful content and ideologies in America rise, both on and offline.

Nearly a third of internet users have encountered hate speech online, according to a Government Accountability Office study published last year. The Southern Poverty Law Center’s annual Year in Hate and Extremism report identified 1,430 U.S. hate and anti-government extremist groups in 2023, with active anti-LGBTQ+ and white nationalist groups surging to record highs.

Although extremist and hate groups are inherently nebulous, nuanced and very different from one another, racism and toxic masculinity underpin most. Some love President Donald Trump; some hate him. Some ban women; some have women in leadership and executive positions. Still, groups usually have a central scapegoat — Black people, immigrants, Jewish people, you name it — or cause — abortion, guns, animal rights — that aligns with their goals, such as forming an ethnostate or dismantling government.

Interviews with more than a dozen adolescents, educators and violent extremism, radicalization, media and disinformation experts, including former right-wing extremists, underscore the availability of harm and violence online. Recruiters lurk in Discord servers and Twitch chats; recreate Holocaust gas chambers and school shootings like Columbine on Roblox; and post derogatory memes or catchphrases on Gab, Telegram and 4chan. Some conspiracy theories are even amplified on more mainstream platforms, such as YouTube or X. But whether someone engages with this toxicity, let alone chooses to act on it, usually hinges on their life away from the screens.

THE ORIGINS OF 'EVIL'

Guillermo and I met through The Reclaim Project, a collaboratory at the University of Southern California funded by the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, where I’ve studied the spread of right-wing misinformation and hate through online networks for nearly two years. Our team produces original social media content, including a forthcoming documentary short on Guillermo, that fosters democratic dialogue and an alternative community on the internet, especially for young, vulnerable men who feel disenfranchised, lonely or undervalued, which may lead to extremism — or, in some cases, violence.

In an analysis of more than 3,500 domestic violent and nonviolent extremists from 1948 to 2022 by the National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terrorism (START), headquartered at the University of Maryland, almost 90% of extremists were male, while the most common age at exposure was 20 to 30. The far-right is the dominant ideology among this group, encompassing more than 50% of extremists, including white supremacists, anti-government, anti-immigrant and other hate groups, followed by Islamist, far-left and other single-issue ideologies.

“They know how to look for that individual who feels isolated, who feels alone, who feels nobody understands them,” said Patrick Riccards, the executive director and CEO of Life After Hate, a nonprofit that helps people disengage from violent far-right extremist groups. He said recruiters know how to prey on vulnerabilities — like loss of a loved one, financial insecurity and social isolation or rejection — and weaponize belonging, especially for teenagers who don’t yet have a strong sense of self.

Recruiters channel hurt and suffering into hate. They offer community, purpose and a solution to someone’s pain. Soon enough, nothing else matters.

“The movement becomes both your parents and your priest,” said Riccards.

QUESTIONS HE COULDN'T ANSWER

Jeff Schoep said he joined the National Socialist American Workers Freedom Movement, a little-known Minnesota neo-Nazi group, when he was 18 years old. Three years later, in 1994, he was named commander of what became the largest and most active neo-Nazi organization in America under his guidance. Schoep rebranded the group to the National Socialist Movement (NSM), removed the swastika from the NSM flag to appeal to a broader, more “mainstream” demographic and established the NSM’s Viking Youth Corps to expand the recruitment of children aged 14 to 17, with parental permission.

After two and a half decades as leader, Schoep resigned. He renounced his racist views and founded Beyond Barriers to right his wrongs. Now, Schoep works to help others feel not so alone, heal and change. Beyond Barriers’ efforts are centered on the intervention and prevention of extremism, but Schoep says the latter is key.

“Once you’re radicalized, it’s hard to get out — it’s really hard,” said Schoep, 51. He said his life was dangerous and wrong, but comfortable in a way. “You get used to thriving in a high-stress environment.”

Schoep said disengagement was a gradual process and took years, but the first time he started questioning his ideology was when Deeyah Khan, a Muslim filmmaker and human rights activist, approached him. Schoep said Khan asked him questions he couldn’t answer.

In her 2017 documentary, “White Right: Meeting the Enemy,” Khan interviews Schoep and accompanies NSM at the deadly Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville. Schoep can be seen carrying an NSM flag, flanked by other white supremacists and Confederate flags, as counterprotesters yell “shame” and use pepper spray.

A federal court in Virginia found 17 Unite the Right leaders and organizers, including Schoep and the NSM, liable on charges of civil conspiracy in 2021. The jury ordered Schoep to pay $500,000 in punitive damages. (Other courts have adjusted the amount.)

“Behind that hate is fear,” said Schoep. Every extremist or hate group is afraid of something or someone, but more than anything, they’re afraid of themselves, he believes.

Schoep said he still remembers one of the first cases he took on through Beyond Barriers in 2020, shortly after disengagement.

“He reminded me of myself,” said Schoep as he recounted their conversation. The young man was still an active hate group member, but he agreed to speak with Schoep. He was unconvinced by Schoep’s denunciation of NSM; he kept asking questions.

But Schoep answered them.

The young man said if Schoep is “right” about the harms of his current ideology, then his life “doesn’t matter.” He has no purpose.

Schoep said the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. For 27 years, he had no purpose outside of NSM; when you’re involved “the cause means everything,” he said.

FRINGE TO FOE

Guillermo looked more tired since I last saw him in September, worn out from his new job assembling control panels for sewage grinders. Guillermo said he starts work at 5:30 a.m. every day and usually stays for overtime until 4 p.m. If he’s not too sleepy, he’ll embroider or craft studded bracelets at home.

He makes $23.50 per hour. Overtime is $35 per hour.

“Even with electrician money, I still feel broke,” said Guillermo. He’s working to pay off his new truck; his mom’s car had no air conditioner or radio, leaked water and wouldn’t lock. But one day, he hopes to go back to school and become an engineer.

Economic hardship is a vulnerability that hate groups exploit and target. Detroit was the “perfect recruitment grounds for the NSM,” said Schoep in Khan’s 2017 documentary. “Where the economy is suffering, it’s somewhere that our message resonates with the people,” he added.

That message is now reaching a much wider audience on social media, from fringe to mainstream platforms.

Becca Lewis, a postdoctoral fellow at Stanford University, researches the right-wing influence on Silicon Valley and the internet. Her prior Ph.D. research at Stanford and work at the Data & Society Research Institute focused on right-wing media and online disinformation in a more contemporary context. She also served as an expert witness in the 2022 defamation case against conspiracy theorist Alex Jones, who called the mass shooting of children at Sandy Hook Elementary School a hoax.

Lewis takes issue with the “rabbit hole” metaphor of radicalization, as it tends to blame algorithms and reinforce the idea that right-wing ideologies are “siphoned over in the dark corners of the internet.”

It’s more complicated than that, Lewis argues. Some of the most popular social media content creators and broadcasters, such as Jones’ Infowars, overtly promote white nationalism, far-right ideologies or conspiracy theories.

Lewis’ 2018 report on YouTube outlined what she calls the “Alternative Influence Network (AIN)” of right-wing creators who use “social networking” to amplify each other’s content across ideological lines through guest appearances. The AIN also cultivates trust and reliability with their audience, similar to traditional brand influencers.

Hence, audiences are exposed to more extremist or alternative views and may come to trust those views more.

“None of it stays stable,” said Lewis. Platforms shift as creators get kicked off or join, and an individual creator’s ideology often shifts to reflect their audience or the political climate.

Guillermo said his online community thought Trump was “too soft” in his first term. Now, he’s not so sure. Hate is more upfront, especially on X.

Fuentes speaks in front of flags that say, “America First,” at a pro-Trump march in 2020. (AP Photo/Jacquelyn Martin, File)

Nick Fuentes: From Charlottesville
to ‘America First’

Elon Musk purchased the platform, formerly Twitter, in 2022. He reinstated thousands of previously banned accounts, including right-wing extremists and white supremacists like Nick Fuentes. Musk fired content moderators. Conspiracy theories about the COVID-19 pandemic and the 2020 U.S. presidential election gained traction. Hate speech surged and has continued to rise.

Antisemitism and pro-Nazi content are rampant on X, with Musk himself amplifying the “great replacement theory” that there is a top-down plot to replace and diminish the influence of white people. Sometimes even Trump acts as the “chief amplifier” of fringe online claims, which often originate on 4chan and other right-wing channels, said Lewis. Creators on mainstream platforms like YouTube can also amplify those claims and serve as a “funnel into spaces like 4chan,” she said. It’s a constant series of back-and-forth interactions.

Guillermo’s radicalization journey started on YouTube with channels like Dark5. Some of Dark5’s most popular videos are “5 Secret Places Censored on Google Maps” or “5 Experiments that Could have Destroyed the World.” 4chan was frequently cited. The darkest, most mysterious and violent people, even serial killers, seemed to be on the platform.

Guillermo said he wondered how they could “just exist so freely right there.” Soon enough, he decided to find out.

Guillermo started checking 4chan every other day. He messaged Instagram accounts and asked to join secret Telegram groups. The “shock factor” drew him in; the inside jokes kept him there. Guillermo found a corner of the internet that accepted him. You could say and do anything.

“I would just float around the internet until I found them,” said Guillermo. “And once I found them, I was really evil.”