Eight months after a white nationalist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia ended in the death of a counterprotester, the loose collection of disaffected young white men known as the alt-right is in disarray.
The problems have been mounting: lawsuits and arrests, fundraising difficulties, tepid recruitment, widespread infighting, fierce counterprotests and banishment on social media platforms. Taken together, they've exhausted even some of the staunchest members.
One of the movement's biggest groups, the Traditionalist Worker Party, dissolved in March. Andrew Anglin, founder of the Daily Stormer, the largest alt-right website, has gone into hiding, chased by a harassment lawsuit. And Richard Spencer, the alt-right's most public figure, cancelled a college speaking tour and was abandoned by his attorney last month.
"Things have become a lot harder, and we paid a price for what happened in Charlottesville. . . . The question is whether there is going to be a third act," said Spencer, who coined the name of the movement, which rose to prominence during the 2016 presidential campaign, advocates a whites-only ethno-state, and has posted racist, anti-Semitic and misogynistic memes across the internet.
Overall, the number of neo-Nazi groups increased in the United States in 2017, from 99 to 121, according to a Southern Poverty Law Center report released this year. That number is likely to decrease this year, said Heidi Beirich, who co-wrote the report. SPLC did not group alt-right organizations together, but some of the neo-Nazi groups were an outgrowth of the movement.
"Imploding," is how Beirich now describes the alt-right. "The self-inflicted damage, the defections, the infighting is so rampant, it's to the point of almost being pathetic."
Even so, there is little doubt that white supremacy remains a potent force that is likely to emerge again as a political one - if not as the alt-right, then as something else. Racial animus remains an entrenched aspect of American life.
The alt-right "is on a downward spiral, but it doesn't mean they're going to disappear, and that they're not going to regroup," said Marilyn Mayo, who studies hate groups for the Anti-Defamation League's Center on Extremism. She said one large group called Identity Evropa - which targets college-aged men, is less extreme in rhetoric and has turned away from the alt-right label - has grown recently.
"March was a phenomenal month for Identity Evropa, perhaps our best month," group spokesman Darren Baker said.
Chris Schiano, a reporter for Unicorn Riot, a decentralized nonprofit media organization that has leaked internal correspondence among alt-right members, called the alt-right "basically done." It could resurface if it falls out of public view and organizes under newer, younger leaders, he cautions, but they haven't "gotten much traction yet."
"The overall level of racism in U.S. society hasn't improved, it's just that the organizing space for these types of networks" has largely been depleted, said Schiano, whose group rose out of Occupy Wall Street and documents social protests. "So the latent potential won't go away unless society becomes less racist."
Three percent of Americans surveyed this winter as part of a Washington Post-Kaiser Family Foundation poll said they support the alt-right or white nationalist movement.
The zenith of the alt-right - Charlottesville's Unite the Right rally - also appears to have been the moment of its decline, according to hate-group experts and members of the alt-right, most of whom were predicting a surge in membership at the time.
The death of Heather Heyer, 32 - killed in Charlottesville when a young alt-right member allegedly plowed his car into her - and President Donald Trump's reluctance to disown white nationalism focused a degree of scrutiny on the movement that it hadn't known until then. People started being fired from their jobs. Families disowned their children. Fundraising websites dropped people associated with the alt-right, making it difficult to raise money. Reporters covered every misstep.
Chris Cantwell, a white nationalist radio host featured in a Vice video on the march viewed by millions, wept on camera in a video he posted to the internet, proclaiming himself "terrified" after Charlottesville police issued a warrant for his arrest on charges of using tear gas in the protest. The Daily Stormer was dropped by its web-hosting company.
Some members have given up on the movement entirely. "I got to go back to my normal life," Connor Perrin, who drove all night from Austin to Charlottesville to protest what he saw as the oppression of white men in the United States, said in an interview late last year. "I'm focusing on working and being normal. . . . My mom is like, 'Stop being alt-right. You're going to get yourself in trouble.' " He later added: "We lost."
Others said they were told they weren't extreme enough for the movement. "I was unofficially kicked out because I had sex with a half-Japanese girl, and they didn't like that," said Jack, 18, of Aurora, Illinois, who spoke on the condition that his last name not be published. "With white nationalists, you're never white enough."
There has long been infighting in the white supremacist movement. The National Alliance, which for decades was the country's best organized and perhaps most powerful white supremacist group, succumbed to infighting and a rapid decline following the death of its leader, William Pierce, in 2002. The history of the Ku Klux Klan, too, is one of infighting and internal turmoil.
What separates the alt-right movement from older groups like these, however, is that its members are internet natives. They riff off contemporary culture and politics and understand the power of leavening hate with attempts at humor, which makes their messaging and memes more palatable to disillusioned suburban white kids who spend a lot of time online. Their ideas have infected the mainstream.
"We're not going back to a time when no one had heard the word 'alt-right,' " Spencer said. "We're not going back to a time when no one had heard of an ethno-state. It's in the discourse."
But in the same way the internet was a boon for the alt-right, enabling rapid mobilization, fundraising and a sense of community, it also has thrown up roadblocks to the movement's progress. After alt-right members started getting booted from Facebook and Twitter, they relocated to alternative social media platforms, such as Gab, where they weren't likely to encounter, let alone radicalize, people they call "normies," who use more mainstream outlets.
Participation and enthusiasm appear to have slowed since. Several street rallies have been sparsely populated by white supremacists - but overwhelmingly attended by counterprotesters - and by the time Spencer ended his college speaking tour, few supporters were coming to his speeches.
And for Stormfront, a large white-supremacist online forum whose threads were read by some alt-right members, few were donating money. "It's that time of month again, when the big, scary bills hit," wrote site creator Don Black, whose wife, according to site members, has stopped financially supporting the forum, and whose son, Derek, has rejected white supremacy. "Our contributions have once again totaled less than $2000, which is not enough to cover our basic server and radio bills, and this month we no longer have enough personal money to make up the difference."
The Traditionalist Worker Party, which at its height operated in at least eight states and had about 1,200 paying members, according to its leaders, also collapsed last month. It was perhaps the most institutionally organized of all the groups comprising the alt-right. It had a clear hierarchy - paying members reporting to regional commanders, who in turn reported to the top leaders living in a trailer park in Paoli, Indiana, where everything came apart last month.
The dynamic between co-founders Matt Parrott and Matthew Heimbach has always been unconventional. Heimbach is married to Parrott's stepdaughter from a former marriage, and the two men lived in neighboring trailers, where they promoted traditional gender roles in addition to white-supremacist beliefs.
But according to a police report obtained by the Southern Poverty Law Center, Heimbach and Parrott's wife began sleeping together. In early March, the two told Parrott and Heimbach's wife that the three-month affair was over, but Parrott didn't believe it, so he concocted a plan to catch them. Heimbach and Parrott's wife fell for it, while Parrott was outside, standing atop a box, looking in from the window. Then the box broke, and, cover presumably blown, Parrott went to confront Heimbach, who allegedly choked him. Parrott lost consciousness, then fled to Walmart, where he called police, who reported that Heimbach later violently grabbed his wife's face.
Heimbach was charged with felony domestic battery, the Traditionalist Worker Party disintegrated, and Parrott, speaking on the phone earlier this month, sounded different from the triumphant white supremacist who in the days following the Charlottesville rally had promised that he and the alt-right were here to stay.
"I'm unplugged from politics," Parrott said. "I'm done. I'm out. I don't want to be in The Washington Post anymore. I don't care to have this humiliating and terrifying ordeal be more public than it already is. . . . There is no more Trad Worker."
Heimbach, citing the advice of his attorneys, declined to comment.
The group's website was removed. Some members said they were out. Others said they wanted to start something new. Another group, called Nationalist Initiative, soon coalesced online, heralding a new brand.
"TWP failed," it said in a tweet this month to its 68 followers. "What comes from the ashes?"
LONDON - There are so many Russians here, and so many rich, showy, notorious Russians, that it has become a cliche. Moscow-on-the-Thames? Londongrad? Take your pick.
There's a Channel 4 documentary about sketchy Russians who pay cash for mansions in posh Belgravia, and there's a hit BBC soap opera airing now called "McMafia," about the Russian mob in London - think "The Sopranos" slurping borscht.
There are Russians who shop for bespoke suits on Savile Row and others who hoover up the Siberian caviar in Bob Bob Ricard, the restaurant with the little button on the table you press to get more champagne.
But there are far more ordinary, lumpen Russians driving Ubers and working as nannies - or going to universities or writing software - than there are billionaire oligarchs who own English soccer teams.
Right now, though, in the eyes of the British, the distinctions don't seem to matter. In Parliament and the British press, Russia is roundly denounced as a source of interfering trolls, money launderers and assassins.
And the lives of Russian economics majors, sous chefs and kleptocrats in Britain are suddenly fraught with new anxieties. Critics in London of Russian President Vladimir Putin are reevaluating their need for personal protection. Russians with money worry they will ensnared by new laws going after "unexplained wealth." Russians without money say they are being maligned with stereotypes. Suddenly, exile is not as comfortable, their adopted home not so welcoming.
It all changed with the poisoning of the former Russian double agent Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia, attacked seven weeks ago in the placid English town of Salisbury by a military-grade nerve agent of the Novichok class, a type designed and manufactured by the former Soviet Union and Russia.
Britain pokes its finger directly at the Kremlin for attempted murder. Prime Minister Theresa May called the hit "utterly barbaric."
Russia denies any wrongdoing. Instead, its embassy in Kensington tweets sarcasm about British bungling, and how Agatha Christie's fictional detective Hercule Poirot should be called in.
This week, Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov told the BBC that relations with the West were worse than during the Cold War. British officials agree.
Feeling the chill are the tens, or more likely, hundreds of thousands, of Russian-speakers who live in London and Britain.
Yevgeny Chichvarkin knows well the stereotype of Russians in London. "They think we are all oligarchs," he said. Corrupt, suspicious.
"But there's 20 or 30 individuals here who are involved in scandals," he said, "There's another 400,000 Russians in the country that nobody has ever heard of."
Chichvarkin has been in London almost 10 years. He's rich, creative, outspoken, wears an earring and red shoes. He lives in Chelsea, with his wife and children. He is the founder of a wine emporium in Mayfair called Hedonism, which offers some of the most rare, most expensive vintages in the city - bottles worth tens of thousands of dollars.
He insists, "I am not the cliche Russian."
Chichvarkin fled Moscow in December 2008 with a target on his back, he said. In Russia, he co-founded and ran Yevroset, a countrywide discount chain of 5,000 mobile phone stores, until he was forced into exile, accused by Putin's officials of kidnapping, a charge he has called ridiculous.
He's never gone home, not once, not for his mother's funeral.
We met for breakfast at Chichvarkin's latest venture, a newly opened upscale restaurant and destination bar, with an extensive wine cellar, facing Green Park in London.
It's called "Hide."
He was a little hung over, he apologized. The day before was the Russian Orthodox Church's Easter Sunday. He showed mobile phone photos of his rabbit meatballs and a row of empty wine and champagne bottles. He'd had dear friends over. He's an atheist. Still, they went a little nuts.
Chichvarkin said there are three types of Russians in London: those who are allied with Putin and those, like himself, who are opposed, and a lot of people who don't say anything.
"We are well-educated, wealthy, cultured people - anti-Putin, anti-totalitarian," he said. This is his circle. They go to poetry readings and concertos, not headbanger Russian DJs.
"And there are Russians here for 29 years and they're pro-Putin," Chichvarkin said. "People who are brainwashed." Chichvarkin sipped on his second glass of tomato juice with salt.
He said Britons who hear his accent or know who is he is have told him, uninvited, "Your government is a bunch of bloody bastards."
He said he doesn't take it personally.
Does he think the Russian state poisoned the Skripals?
"Sure, they did it," he said.
They killed the former Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko with a dose of radioactive polonium-210 in 2006, Chichvarkin said, repeating the conclusion of British government, and suffered no sustained consequences.
"He's a traitor," he said, of the double agent Skripal. "It's the worst thing in their minds."
What will happen now?
"Nothing," he said. "Just blah, blah, blah."
Chichvarkin said he lives without bodyguards.
He is revisiting this topic.
Tonia Samsonova, a correspondent based in London for the independent Echo of Moscow radio station, told The Washington Post, "The whole atmosphere surrounding the Skripal situation has made it pretty scary to be a Russian in London."
"You are living here and see London is now against Russia, and you feel a little bit like a traitor," she said. "You can't explain to yourself who you are now, and it is frustrating. One way to exorcise this frustration is going out and voting for Putin."
Sergey Buravlev, editor of the Profile Russia news website, said that since the Skripal attack, Brits have approached him asking: "Why are you Russians killing Russians?"
He said there is a "small percentage of Britons" who are questioning Russian culpability for the Skripal poisoning, but the "overwhelming majority of the population believes what they show on TV and write in newspapers."
And in Britain, he said, "If the media say that the Russians are evil, then they will believe it."
Arthur Doohan, co-founder of ClampK, an anti-corruption initiative, welcomes the scrutiny.
Doohan runs "kleptocracy tours" of London, pointing out opulent homes purchased with suspect funds. Standing in Belgrave Square - dubbed "billionaire row" in the tabloids - he noted that the homes owned by Russian oligarchs are almost always empty, save for visits by the cleaning staff.
"Oh, the maid is in," he said, as the curtains twitched in a white stucco building that British newspapers say is owned by the Russian oligarch Oleg Deripaska, the oil tycoon and metals billionaire who now finds himself on a U.S. sanctions list for his ties to Putin.
While London is awash with cash from rich foreigners - not just Russians - Doohan said it's often easier to spot Russian money.
"The Russians just flaunt their wealth. They are completely indiscreet about it. We know there are Chinese people here: They are unbelievably discreet and don't flaunt it. The Russians flaunt everything. Their visibility makes it very easy to track them."
Real estate brokers and property sellers in Britain, and London in particular, have gorged themselves on Russian and overseas investments, based on lax laws and easy access to friendly offshore holding companies.
Katya Zenkovich, who helps Russian clients acquire properties in London, says the vast majority of Russians aren't millionaires seeking to shelter money, but professionals drawn by Britain's private education system.
"I have clients who are like myself, are salaried people, who need a mortgage to get onto the property ladder," Zenkovich said. "They could be professionals in any kind of capacity: IT specialists, working in banks."
She continued: "I think what Russians are slightly upset about is that they are brushed with the same brush - if it's Russians, then it's rich and super rich and political kleptocrats, you name it. The stereotypes are very strong. But, actually, the Russian contingent is very, very varied."
The British government has said that frosty relations should not impact ordinary Russians living in Britain. Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson warned people not to engage in "Russophobia."
But it's everywhere, said Katia Nikitina, the editor of ZIMA, a magazine for Russians in Britain and beyond. "It's affected all of us, those who already moved here, those thinking about moving, because there is quite a lot of uncertainty with the situation," she said.
As the Skripal investigation moves forward, as Sergei or Yulia Skripal remember more about the day they were poisoned, and police couple those recollections with the 5,000 hours of CCTV surveillance footage in Salisbury, the atmosphere for Russians in Britain might grow worse.
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Matthew Bodner in Moscow contributed to this report.