Rittenhouse (centre) at a rally in support of the Second Amendment (Bill Pugliano/Getty Images)


August 7, 2024   4 mins

For a very long time now, commentary about Donald Trump’s good fortune has been much preoccupied with his unrivalled capacity for political survival. Though the attempts to jail or otherwise marginalise him seem to have fallen by the wayside lately, it wasn’t really that long ago that political debate more or less revolved around the strange invincibility of “Teflon Don”. No scandals, no court case, no internal coup could seem to break his stride, and many a pundit found cause to curse the supposed brainwashed “cult” that had formed around him: for what other reason would there ever be for so many people to support the man? The idea that people in 2016 or even 2020 simply listened to what the man had to say, took stock of his political programme, and actually liked what they saw and heard usually didn’t cross anyone’s mind.

It’s thus quite ironic that actual proof of a “Trump cult”, at least in a manner of speaking, is slowly beginning to surface now, at a point where it simply doesn’t matter anymore. Today, the US has so many problems — with more seemingly on the way — that discussing minor unsavoury details about Trump simply doesn’t elicit much of a response. But even so, a very minor and soon-forgotten civil war among many of his online supporters might be worth dwelling on, for the simple reason that it reveals that Trump might not be all that he used to be. When all is said and done, tales of his political invincibility might end up being just tales.

The online spat in question began last week, when Kyle Rittenhouse — the young man who killed several men during the series of riots following the police shooting of Jacob Blake — posted a selfie together with the retired libertarian politician Ron Paul. Rittenhouse explained that Trump wasn’t strong enough on the Second Amendment, which isn’t particularly outlandish as far as political viewpoints go in 2024 America. He then added that he was writing in Ron Paul for the presidential election, thereby implying that he wouldn’t be voting for Trump.

What followed was a veritable explosion of hatred and rage, a picture-perfect example of a “rabid Leftist” cancellation, except it was coming from the Right. People took to denouncing Rittenhouse as a lowly backstabber, a Judas in the flesh, guilty of betraying Trump. They didn’t stop there: they mocked his appearance, his weight, intimated that it would have been better if Rittenhouse had actually been shot that night in Kenosha, and that nobody should ever listen to him. Rittenhouse, who was probably quite shocked at such sheer vehemence, swiftly published a letter of apology, in which he dutifully denounced everything he’d just said and promised to be a good boy and vote for Trump.

The idea that a voter owes loyalty to a politician (and should thus simply shut up if the politician is weak on the issues the voter cares about) is a strange one to have in an electoral democracy. But the mildness of Rittenhouse’s criticism — that Trump had been weak on the Second Amendment — together with the fierceness of the anger directed at him speaks to something fairly significant: it reveals a growing sense of weakness and panic on the American Right.

The energy of 2016 is mostly gone at this point; many people I know who were quite into Trump eight years ago have now mostly checked out. And it’s not exactly a great mystery why: many of the guest speakers at the Republican National Conference were divisive, to put it mildly, and in general there’s just a sense that Trump is older and slower at age 78 than he was at age 70. More problematically, Trump’s penchant for surrounding himself with people who undermine what he’s doing — or at least undermine what many voters think Trump should be doing — does not seem to have improved over the years.

“Many people I know who were quite into Trump eight years ago have now mostly checked out.”

Criticisms of the kind that Kyle Rittenhouse voiced — before being forced to ritually denounce them in an online Maoist struggle session — sting today because they hit at something real. Behind every lurid tale about how Trump is going to deport a hundred million illegals over lunch break while also lowering the price of hamburgers, there lurks a growing sense of aimlessness, desperation, and fear: fear that things in America are rapidly breaking apart, that more pointless forever wars loom on the horizon, that nobody — not even Trump — will actually captain the ship. Faced with this insecurity, we can see the emergence of a growing “Trump cult”, one that exists not as a casual slur but a genuine social phenomenon.

But what, you might ask, about Kamala Harris? Surely, there’s something fairly similar going on among Democrats? The answer to that question is both yes and no. Harris appears less as the leader of a cult of personality than a very odd kind of American Gorbachev. Because Biden’s re-election campaign was an almost farcical exercise in cult-like behaviour — with grown adults repeating the obvious lie that the man was “sharp as a tack” up to the point when he was forcibly removed — Harris’s ascendancy truly does represent a form of glasnost and perestroika for Democratic voters. No longer do they have to pretend that the obviously incapable 81-year-old is the best presidential candidate in the history of the country; now they only have to contend with a politician who is merely unpopular and incompetent. After being forced to subsist on tree bark and coal shavings for more than a year, the Democratic coalition now seems quite happy at being treated to bread and water.

On the American Right, by contrast, it’s important to note that the growing “Trump cult” is not a product of Donald Trump himself. It’s not a top-down scheme to trick people or string them along. Rather, it is a bottom-up phenomenon, and very likely a short-term one at that.

After the Second World War, the tribal Melanesian islanders created cargo cults and built improvised runways in the hope that the American planes would be convinced to return. For many of Trump’s voters today, the choice now is to either give up hope of significant improvement, or to try to meme the good old days of 2016 back into existence, while treating anyone who risks piercing the bubble with increasing hostility.

But for every person screaming at Kyle Rittenhouse and telling him to repent, you will find two or three people whose hopes for improvement through the political system have diminished substantially over the past eight years. Trump or no Trump, the MAGA Right is starting to lose its grip. Despairing at the black storm clouds on the horizon, they are desperately trying to keep the flame of faith alive, even if the tools to do so take them uncomfortably close to the Left they purport to hate. Fans of Harris, on the other hand, have already learned to live with disappointment and hopelessness. On both sides, then, in very different ways, Reagan’s promise of “Morning in America” has never felt so distant.


Malcom Kyeyune is a freelance writer living in Uppsala, Sweden

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