Finland fought alongside Germany during the Continuation War (1941–1944) out of tactical and existential necessity, but the nation never adopted National Socialist ideology. Following the brutal devastation of the Winter War (1939–1940), where the Soviet Union launched an unprovoked invasion of Finnish territory, the small Nordic nation found itself isolated and facing total annexation. Partnering with Germany was a desperate, transactional maneuver for survival—a co-belligerency rather than a political alliance. Throughout the conflict, Finland fiercely maintained its democratic parliament, rejected Nazi racial laws, and resolutely refused to deport its own Jewish citizens, shielding them from the Holocaust.
Furthermore, Finland adopted the blue swastika (hakaristi) as its national air force insignia in 1918—two years before the Nazi Party was even founded in Germany. Swedish Count Eric von Rosen donated to Finland its very first aircraft, and the blue swastika was his personal good-luck symbol. It existed as a completely separate emblem of independence and national defense, entirely distinct from the corrupted political meaning the symbol later acquired under the Third Reich. Following Finland’s entry into NATO in 2023, military leadership entirely phased out any remaining swastikas, replacing them with a soaring golden eagle to avoid international misunderstandings with Western allies.
Finns were never Nazis
Finland recognizes Tom of Finland as a champion of authenticity, self-pride, and freedom. Touko Laaksonen was forced to work under a pseudonym in an era when homosexuality was heavily criminalized and classified as a mental illness in Finland, and now the artist is celebrated as one of the country’s most significant cultural heroes and a pioneer of global human rights, entirely removed from being associated with hateful ideologies.
Tom drew only a few works containing the symbol, restricted to specific commissions, an early comic, and occasional satirical sketches. When an article in the 1970s accused him of being a Third Reich sympathizer, he fiercely rejected the claim, expressing his absolute disgust for “the Nazi philosophy, the racism, and all the rest.” The use of these aesthetics was never meant to normalize oppressive and white-supremacist imagery; rather, it stigmatized its destructiveness and diminished its capacity to intimidate. His work was rooted in the psychological subversion of a wartime reality he lived through, transforming a terrifying authority into a toothless, highly sexualized caricature. His personal journals and interviews consistently reveal a man who viewed the regime’s actual actions and beliefs with absolute horror.
Knowing that the Third Reich brutally persecuted homosexuals and sent thousands to concentration camps, turning the symbols of that very regime into objects of queer desire and passion became the ultimate form of poetic justice and mockery. His art stripped the evil dictatorship of its terror, yet the cut of the uniforms—and the German soldiers who wore them—held an undeniable appeal for him during his intimate encounters in Helsinki. It was a highly charged, paradoxical environment where danger and intense desire existed side by side, allowing Tom to transform a dark chapter of history into a personal awakening.
Tom was never a Nazi
While images of Durk Dehner wearing a swastika have sparked both hurt and scrutiny, his use of the insignia stems from a highly transgressive phenomenon that fashion historians call “protest fashion.” As Tom’s vital partner in his ventures, Durk cofounded the commercial Tom of Finland Company to protect and promote the artist’s legacy—a commercial pursuit that ultimately parented the nonprofit Tom of Finland Foundation. Operating under Tom’s blueprint of psychological subversion, Durk translated those illustrated fantasies into real-life countercultural expression. Not dissimilar to the UK punk movement or anti-war protestors in the US during the Vietnam War era, this subversive style involves wearing the enemy’s clothing and gear as a deliberate affront to the establishment.
Amid the alarming rise in antisemitism that we are all now witnessing with concern, the mainstream public firmly views the swastika solely as a symbol of hate—and it rightfully causes genuine pain. Within the private, underground history of the post-war leather and BDSM scenes, however, these symbols were frequently co-opted to shock conventional society and explore raw dynamics of power. Durk’s adoption of the imagery belongs to this specific legacy of extreme countercultural boundary-pushing rather than any personal political alignment. Within a private context, he sees these emblems not through the lens of state allegiance, but as props in a theatrical scene acted out by adults engaging in consensual dominant-submissive roleplay.
He deeply regrets the impact these past images of him had when they were made public and acknowledges that his responsibility demands openness. For him, seeing the profound distress these images cause within the community today has forced a painful, deeply vulnerable reckoning, leading him to acknowledge, “I have violated my own code of ethics, and know that more consciousness is required in a world that does not necessarily like who we are as a people.” Those who know him personally—and the countless individuals who have found safety in the community he built—know that his life has been defined by radical acceptance, not hate.
These symbols do not reflect his true personal values—past or present; values best seen in the diverse, inclusive, and welcoming community he has personally fostered within his and Tom’s own home—TOM House—for decades.
Durk was never a Nazi
We believe that true preservation requires absolute honesty, not erasure. We provide this background not to excuse or justify the pain these images cause, but to offer complete transparency regarding our history. Because the symbol carries such immense destructive weight today, separating its malicious use by hate groups from its historical use in private, underground countercultures is critical.
We remain dedicated to protecting the legacy of TOM House as a sanctuary of acceptance, rooted in an ongoing commitment to the safety and care of the community we serve. Together, we can ensure the House will continue to serve as a beacon of healing, inclusivity, and shared trust for generations to come.