From television studios to football terraces, from Cyprus to Greece, the grotesque political resurrection of Ilias Kasidiaris is becoming another uncomfortable demonstration that while history does not necessarily repeat itself, stupidity certainly has an excellent memory.
There is something profoundly rotten about a democracy that spends years explaining why a dangerous political movement must be confronted, only to invite its most recognisable representatives back into the living rooms of ordinary citizens as though they were merely controversial entertainers. And there is something even more depressing about a media establishment that apparently cannot distinguish between political journalism and the rehabilitation of political extremism.
Ilias Kasidiaris, the former Golden Dawn figure convicted of participating in a criminal organisation and imprisoned, is once again sucking up attention, visibility and political oxygen. His reappearance in the public conversation, whether through television exposure, political manoeuvring, football-related spectacles, or the circulation of his image beyond Greece, raises a question that should embarrass every serious journalist: Have the Greek media learned absolutely nothing? Apparently not.
Kasidiaris is not some misunderstood provincial politician whose career was interrupted by an unfortunate administrative oversight. He was one of the most recognisable faces of a movement whose political identity was inseparable from authoritarian nationalism, violent intimidation and the glorification of Nazi symbolism. Golden Dawn was not simply another party with over-enthusiastic supporters and a bad taste in uniforms. Its criminal character was established by the Greek judiciary. The murder of Pavlos Fyssas, the violence against immigrants, and the systematic intimidation carried out by its members were not imaginary political inconveniences; they were documented crimes. Yet here we are again, watching the familiar machinery of publicity warm up.
The Greek media have a peculiar talent for turning political danger into television entertainment. Give them an inflammatory personality, a provocative statement, an outrageous gesture, or a carefully manufactured confrontation, and suddenly the studio lights come on. The presenter smiles, the cameras roll, the audience gets its spectacle, and the extremist gets precisely what he came for: recognition, legitimacy, and an audience larger than he could ever assemble through ordinary political debate.
The business model is embarrassingly simple. Controversy produces clicks. Anger drives ratings. Extremism, properly packaged, becomes prime-time entertainment. And somewhere inside this commercial circus, democratic responsibility quietly slips out the back door.
The problem is not that journalists should refuse to cover Kasidiaris. Democracies cannot operate through censorship, convenient silence, or the suppression of uncomfortable political realities. The problem lies in the distinction between reporting on an extremist and providing him with an uncritical platform for political rehabilitation. Journalism should interrogate, expose, contextualise, and challenge. It should not function as an unpaid public-relations firm for men whose careers depend on exploiting democratic freedoms while holding democratic values in utter contempt.
There is also a staggering contradiction at the heart of the Greek public conversation. Politicians, commentators and respectable citizens repeatedly declare themselves shocked by the rise of the far right, yet the very same political culture keeps feeding these personalities the publicity that makes their resurrection possible. Then everyone acts surprised when the monster walks back into the room.
From Greece to Cyprus, the circulation of such figures and their political mythology should alarm anyone who understands how easily national grievances, economic frustrations, and social anxieties can be weaponised into combustible nationalist theatre. The far right does not need an entire society to turn fascist overnight. It simply requires enough people to become indifferent, enough institutions to grow complacent, and enough media outlets to decide that another provocative headline matters more than democratic vigilance.
Football offers another convenient stage. Stadiums, tribal loyalties, posture-heavy masculinity, and nationalist symbols provide an emotionally charged environment where political extremism can disguise itself as cultural identity or patriotic enthusiasm. Naturally, not every football supporter is an extremist. But pretending that political movements do not exploit football culture is just another exercise in wilful blindness.
This is precisely where the Greek media deserve the sharpest criticism. They know the history. They know the judicial verdicts. They know the images, the violence and the political consequences. They know perfectly well what kind of toxic language is being recycled. Their responsibility is therefore greater, not smaller.
History may repeat itself, but it rarely does so without a nudge. Somebody has to open the door. Somebody has to switch on the cameras. Somebody has to decide that a convicted extremist deserves another round of publicity because it might boost the ratings.
Democracy is not merely the right to appear on television; it is the responsibility to defend the political conditions that make television, journalism, and freedom of speech possible in the first place.
Kasidiaris may well want to launch another political career. That is a matter for democratic institutions and the law. But the Greek media need to ask themselves whether they intend to remain journalists or become the marketing department for democratic self-destruction.
Because when fascism returns wearing a familiar face, the most dangerous idiots are not necessarily the ones cheering in the audience. They are the respectable people behind the cameras who insist they are merely doing their jobs.
No comments:
Post a Comment