Why are growing numbers of wealthy figures in technology, cryptocurrency and artificial intelligence gravitating towards populist right-wing parties, when Silicon Valley has historically been associated with liberals and Democrats? Is it a matter of direct economic self-interest, in the form of less regulation and lower taxes? An ideological belief in accelerating technological development without legislative or ethical constraints? Or a political bet on the stronger side?
In recent weeks, this relationship has been particularly visible in Britain, where a £72 million donation to the populist Reform UK party by two wealthy cryptocurrency investors unleashed a political storm. It was the largest donation in British political history, dwarfing the previous record of £10 million given to the Conservative Party. The two British donors, who made their fortunes abroad before recently returning to live in Britain, have raised questions about political funding rules and prompted calls for new legislation to be fast-tracked to ensure a clear separation between political parties and wealthy financiers, preventing the latter from interfering in the democratic political process.
As large as that sum is by British standards, it pales in comparison with the billions flowing annually to America's two major parties. Recent British media reports have also highlighted a group of wealthy businesspeople, most of them from the artificial intelligence industry, who made substantial donations to the governing party, while only one billionaire contributed to the opposition.
Looking back to the 1920s and 1930s, we find a picture that may seem familiar: an alliance between fascist and Nazi movements and industrial capitalists, including arms manufacturers. We know the devastation that alliance ultimately produced. But are we witnessing a repeat of the same scenario, or a different phenomenon, driven by different motives and circumstances, that deserves to be understood on its own terms?
The industrialists' motives back then were clear: to ward off the threat of communism and trade unions. But what are today's technology tycoons afraid of? Perhaps government intervention, or restrictions that could slow a race they believe will determine the fate of their companies. This context helps explain President Donald Trump's opposition to calls to curb AI development, despite warnings from some people working in the field itself. Trump justifies his position by pointing to competition with China, arguing that any intervention in the sector would cost America the race. Many share this argument, but the question remains: is it genuinely in the national interest, a cover for the interests of political donors, or both?
Money has long played an important role in politics and party financing, with both sides benefiting from an enduring exchange of interests. Yet the assumption that money buys electoral victory is contradicted by numerous election results. In the 2016 US presidential election, official figures showed that Hillary Clinton's campaign raised substantially more money than Donald Trump's, yet Trump won the presidency. This was not an isolated case; the same pattern was repeated in Britain's 2024 election.
The money that failed to buy victory in America in 2016 did not wield the same power it does today. Back then, technology tycoons were not lined up behind Trump as they are now, nor did many of them possess the tools of influence they command today. In my view, the new alliance between the populist right and technology magnates is not betting on buying votes on election day. It is betting on shaping public opinion in the days and years leading up to it.
The danger of "digital money" lies not merely in the vast sums deposited into party coffers, but in the fact that its owners now control the tools that shape public opinion: platforms and algorithms. Elon Musk is a case in point.
In the 1930s, industrial capital financed those who defended its interests. Today's technology capital owns both the means of communication and the message itself. This is the fundamental difference between the two situations, and it presents Western democracies with an unprecedented challenge.
It also demands that we reframe the question posed in the title, "Who votes, and who pays?" The more pertinent question is: Who owns the space in which voters' minds are shaped before they cast their ballots?
