16-07-2025
'Not all men': How the shifting political terrain is making harmful rhetoric seem moderate - ABC Religion & Ethics
There's a growing discomfort with some of the language we use to describe gendered harm. The debate over toxic masculinity is familiar, fraught and often circular. But a newer unease has emerged in social media discussions: the suggestion that even terms like manosphere — the longstanding descriptor for the online ecosystem of influencers, activists and communities that espouse men's grievance and promote male dominance — may now be too harsh, too alienating, too gendered.
This is part of a broader commentary suggesting that the use of gendered language to describe male-dominated networks of harm risks shutting men out of the conversation. On the surface, this can sound like progress — part of an authentic effort to 'meet men where they are' and broaden their engagement in gender equality and violence prevention. But it's worth asking, Why now? Why are terms long used in research and advocacy increasingly being labelled divisive? What has shifted to make naming gendered harm feel too uncomfortable?
Part of the answer lies not in the words themselves, but in the shifting political ground beneath them. We are living through a moment where discourse around gender and power is polarised and polarising. As far-right ideologies become louder, more organised and more visible, they promote traditional, hierarchical gender roles. Those who reject such extremism but remain wary of structural gender analysis begin to sound moderate by comparison. The political rightward shift not only amplifies the extreme — it repositions suspicion of feminist ideas as balanced, and even reasonable.
Nick Adams addresses the DC Young Republicans at the Capitol Hill Club on 29 January 2024, in Washington, DC. (Photo by Jahi Chikwendiu / The Washington Post via Getty Images)
Just look at what's happening in the United States. Earlier this year, Donald Trump, Jr offered praise and support for Andrew and Tristan Tate — high-profile figures known for espousing misogynistic, authoritarian worldviews under the guise of male empowerment, and currently facing charges of sexual assault and human trafficking. Then, just days ago, President Trump nominated Australian-American Nick Adams — a self-styled 'alpha male' and anti-woke provocateur — as ambassador to Malaysia.
These aren't fringe actors. They're being platformed and legitimised by the highest levels of political power.
This is the context in which softer critiques of feminist language start to look reasonable. The psychologist who questions the use of manosphere , the commentator who says we should avoid 'gendered generalisations' — they are absolutely not promoting hate. But their discomfort with naming gendered power now lands in a conversation that is already being pulled sharply to the right. And in that climate, simply appearing not-too-extreme becomes a kind of authority.
This rhetorical repositioning matters. It shifts focus from how power operates to how language feels. It allows a soft revival of 'not all men' logic — not as an internet retort, but as a structural narrative. And while that logic was never especially extreme, it begins to start feeling more moderate, even reasonable, against the backdrop of louder, more overt forms of backlash.
The result is a growing reluctance to name masculinity at all. A growing chorus singing that identifying men-dominated networks of harm might alienate the very men we should be engaging. That the real danger is not misogyny, but the discomfort that arises when we try to talk about it honestly.
But gender is already in the conversation. It's baked into the structures we're trying to understand. The term manosphere doesn't indict all men. It describes a network of ideologies that organise around male grievance and gender dominance — including incels, men's rights activists, pick-up artists and self-professed misogynistic content creators.
Calls to soften this language often come from a place of care, especially within the men's health sector. But when that care comes at the cost of political clarity, we have to ask who benefits. If we avoid naming gender because it feels impolite, we risk preserving the very hierarchies we claim to be addressing. More than that, we reduce gendered violence to individual bad behaviour, rather than expressions of entrenched power. This depoliticises the conversation, obscuring the broader patterns that sustain inequality.
And that's the real danger of this shift. It allows harmful ideas to be repackaged as reason. It allows misogyny to hide in plain sight — not in overt rhetoric, but in discomfort with naming the structures behind it. And it leaves us with a strange, unsettling reality: that in a world where the discourse keeps moving right, simply saying 'gender matters' now feels like a provocation.
Professor Steven Roberts is Head of School of Education, Culture and Society at Monash University.
