In recent months, a development long feared by observers of the American political landscape has moved from the margins into plain view: Tucker Carlson, once the most influential voice on Fox News and now a central figure in the online populist right, has begun openly platforming Nick Fuentes — a self-proclaimed racist, white nationalist, and Holocaust denier whose stated project is to reshape the conservative movement in his own image. For those who have watched the evolution of Carlson’s rhetoric over the past several years, the moment felt less like a surprise than a culmination.
Fuentes, who rose to prominence by cultivating a following among disaffected young men online, has been explicit about his ideology. He has praised authoritarian regimes, derided democracy, attacked civil rights, and frequently invoked antisemitic conspiracies. His goal, as he has articulated in his own broadcasts, is not merely to influence the right, but to purify it — to push mainstream conservatism away from pluralism, away from constitutional liberalism, and toward an ethno-nationalist worldview centered on whiteness as a political identity.
To his critics, Carlson’s decision to host Fuentes was not simply a matter of giving airtime to a controversial figure; it was the clearest sign yet that Carlson sees Fuentes as an ideological fellow traveler. During the interview, Carlson did not challenge Fuentes on his most extreme claims. He did not question Fuentes’s long record of antisemitic, racist, and authoritarian statements. Instead, he offered praise, affirmation, and what can only be described as a tone of admiration. At one point, as Fuentes laid out his vision for transforming the right, Carlson responded, almost warmly: “I guess you won.”
The exchange was shocking not because Fuentes has changed — he has been remarkably blunt about his ideology for years — but because Carlson chose to treat him like a serious public intellectual rather than a propagandist for hate.
This is a pattern Carlson’s critics have been documenting for some time. While Carlson has always denied being antisemitic and has insisted that his commentary is merely about “asking questions,” his programming has routinely showcased themes long associated with antisemitic conspiracy narratives: accusations of dual loyalty, claims of covert elite manipulation, and insinuations that global or financial systems are secretly controlled by Jewish interests. Carlson rarely makes these charges explicitly; instead, he presents them through rhetorical framing designed to maintain plausible deniability.
But intent aside, the effect is unmistakable. If the questions you ask always lead toward the same insinuations — if your skepticism always points at the same target — eventually the pattern speaks louder than the disclaimers.
This tendency became especially visible when Carlson conducted a widely discussed interview with Ted Cruz. The two men clashed over U.S. foreign policy toward Israel, and Carlson’s tone was notably hostile. Cruz pointed out that Carlson seemed to have developed a fixation on the Jewish state. Carlson bristled, insisting that he was only pursuing honest inquiry. Nevertheless, the exchange underscored something important: Carlson’s political vision appears increasingly shaped by the idea that America’s interests are being subverted by hidden forces and that those forces are associated with Jewish power.
This worldview is not new. In the 1930s, public figures like Father Coughlin and Charles Lindbergh used radio broadcasts and public speaking tours to spread similar ideas, claiming that Jewish influence distorted American politics. Their rhetoric helped fuel a climate of distrust and division that lingered for decades. The lesson from that era was painfully clear: antisemitism does not need to be shouted to be effective. It only needs to be suggested — repeatedly, subtly, and with the air of sober inquiry.
Yet Carlson has gone further than mere implication. He has also promoted figures who attempt to rewrite the history of the Holocaust and World War II. One striking example was his enthusiastic endorsement of Darryl Cooper, a fringe commentator who describes Winston Churchill as the “villain” of the war and claims Adolf Hitler did not seek conflict. Carlson called Cooper “the most important historian in the United States” — a statement that left actual historians baffled and alarmed. Cooper’s claims are not mainstream revisionism; they are part of a longstanding effort to sanitize fascism and rewrite one of the darkest chapters in human history.
This brings us back to Nick Fuentes. During his interview with Carlson, Fuentes spoke openly about his opposition to “organized Jewry” — a phrase with a long and disturbing pedigree in antisemitic propaganda — and even praised Joseph Stalin. Carlson did not push back. He did not even seem uncomfortable. Instead, he nodded politely and moved on.
The backlash was immediate. Conservative commentators, Jewish organizations, Republican strategists, and even longtime Carlson admirers expressed alarm. Many saw the moment as evidence that an ancient hatred — one the mainstream right had spent decades distancing itself from — is now being welcomed back into power.
But it is also important to recognize what the broader Republican base currently looks like. The MAGA movement itself is not defined by antisemitism. Donald Trump, whose personality and political identity drive the movement, has a Jewish son-in-law, supported Israel enthusiastically while in office, and has consistently rejected calls to marginalize Jewish Americans. Whatever critiques one might make of Trump, antisemitism is not a core plank of his ideology.
This is exactly why Carlson’s project is so dangerous. He and his allies — including Candace Owens, who has increasingly pushed anti-Zionist and conspiratorial narratives — are trying to reshape the right from within. Their goal is to decouple American conservatism from its long-standing support for Jewish inclusion and the state of Israel. If they succeed, the damage will be moral, political, and strategic. It will undermine shared civic principles and fracture the coalition that has defined conservative politics for half a century.
For generations, American conservatism prided itself on defending Western heritage, religious freedom, and constitutional order. It drew inspiration from ancient Israel’s emphasis on law, covenant, and moral responsibility — ideas that influenced the Founders deeply. To turn against those values would not only be historically incoherent; it would be spiritually hollow.
Yet that is precisely the direction Carlson and Fuentes are steering toward. And if their collaboration signals anything, it is that this struggle is not theoretical. It is underway now.
The question facing the right is simple: Will it allow its future to be shaped by grievance, exclusion, and vengeance — or will it insist on the principles that made it a vital force in American life?
