What’s the Deal With Pete Hegseth’s Crusader Tattoos?
Donald Trump’s potential secretary of defense hasn’t been straightforward about the violent symbolism of his ink.
WHEN DONALD TRUMP NAMED PETE HEGSETH, longtime host of a weekend-morning Fox News show, as his first choice to become secretary of defense, scholars of the history of the Crusades started getting calls from journalists. Most academics would welcome any opportunity to discuss their work for non-specialist audiences, but no Crusades historian wants to be called upon to explain some aspect of contemporary politics. The implications are frequently alarming.
Hegseth has military experience, having served in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Guantanamo Bay with the Minnesota National Guard. But his background suggests that he was offered the role for non-experience-related reasons: All secretaries of defense have had either higher military rank (Hegseth is a major), experience in government (Hegseth has none), relevant experience in the defense industry (Hegseth has none), or some combination of the above. As Paul Rieckhoff, founder of Independent Veterans of America, said, “Hegseth is undoubtedly the least qualified nominee for SecDef in American history. And the most overtly political. Brace yourself, America.” Reactions from the military and the national security apparatus so far have ranged from shock to outrage.
Hegseth’s past inflammatory comments, his books, his views on January 6th, and other typical problems besetting right-wing populists meant that nominating him was sure to provoke a lot of criticism. But one problem that is unique to Hegseth among Trump’s appointees so far—and the reason historians of the Crusades have been getting calls from reporters—involves his tattoos.
Hegseth has previously brought up the issue himself. He claims that one of his tattoos—a Jerusalem Cross on his chest—led to his dismissal from guard duty during Biden’s inauguration in 2021 because his unit leaders deemed it evidence of his being an “extremist” and a “potential threat.” Hegseth insinuates that he was discriminated against for having this “religious” image on his body.
But the symbol is not only religious: It has always carried a political valence. The Jerusalem Cross was used as the emblem of the Kingdom of Jerusalem from the late thirteenth century onwards. You may have seen it in Ridley Scott’s The Kingdom of Heaven (2005). It has made its way into a variety of contemporary far-right Templar myths. All this is left unmentioned by Hegseth.
And it’s far from the only ideologically charged tattoo on Trump’s SecDef nominee.
Hegseth’s right arm is covered from top to bottom, and most of the images draw from Revolution-era propaganda primarily associated nowadays with the “Patriot” rhetoric of militia movements and QAnon. Three of these are clearly visible in the cover photo for one of his books, American Crusade: (1) the year 1775 in Roman numerals, (2) “We the People” in a stylized colonial script, and (3) an American flag with a modified M-4 superimposed over the lower bars. He also has Ben Franklin’s famous “Join or Die” cartoon—the chopped-up snake representing the fate of the non-unified colonies—on the underside of his forearm. On his shoulder he has the insignia of the 187th Infantry Regiment in which he served; his elbow is decorated with a circle of stars and the crook of his arm features a pair of crossed muskets.
Some of Hegseth’s other tattoos express religious themes. His shoulder has a Chi Rho, a Catholic symbol with roots that go back to the dawn of Christendom; the name of Jesus is rendered in Hebrew characters on his inner right forearm.1
And then there are the tattoos that have made the work of historians of the Crusades depressingly relevant to contemporary politics again: a sword embedded in a cross on Hegseth’s inner forearm—it represents Matthew 10:34, the verse wherein Christ says, “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword”—and, most disturbing of all, a gothic inscription on his bicep: “Deus Vult.”
Deus vult is the Latin for “God wills it.” During the First Crusade, it was raised as a battle cry. This is its univocal origin and context, and Hegseth knows it well: In American Crusade, he refers to it as “the rallying cry of Christian knights as they marched to Jerusalem,” a summons to “followers of Christ to take up the sword in defense of their faith, their families, and their freedom.” It provides the last words in American Crusade: “See you on the battlefield. Together, with God’s help, we will save America. Deus vult!” And have I mentioned that his book is titled American Crusade?
HEGSETH HAS NEVER BEEN SUBTLE about any of this; his tattoos are like a collage of aggressive bumper stickers such as you might see on the back of a truck with steer horns over the windshield. Importantly, “Deus Vult” has never been interpreted as a call for spiritual combat—for reflection and prayer. It has always been understood as a call for violent action, for blood. This interpretation remains consistent in its widespread adoption by the Christian far right around the world, including by some who marched on the Capitol on January 6th, and one who perpetrated shocking white supremacist violence against Muslims in New Zealand.
The story that emerges from Hegseth’s sleeve is a familiar one; it provides a veritable checklist of today’s Christian nationalist folklore. Among many who espouse a union of church and state, gun tattoos such as Hegseth’s amount to a kind of spiritual kitsch, a younger and more radical generation’s version of putting a framed print of Albrecht Dürer’s study of praying hands on the dining room wall. The iconography of weaponry is ubiquitous: Hegseth has used his Instagram profile to advertise silencers, ammunition, and soaps shaped like grenades.
He’s also hawked books from a Christian nationalist press, further reinforcing his ideological affinities. But Hegseth doesn’t need to outsource his beliefs. He has made clear that he sees himself and Donald Trump—whom he has approvingly called a “Crusader in Chief”—as leaders in a holy war to reclaim America:
Like crusaders and patriots past, Donald Trump’s red hat rebellion demonstrates that unapologetically going on offense is the only tenable strategy for the defense of our republic. Surrounded by the Left, with the odds stacked against us, only a crusade will do.
Is someone who says things like that, and who covers his body in the symbols that Hegseth does, likely to prevent Trump from using the military against Americans, as the president-elect has publicly stated he intends to do?
In American Crusade, Hegseth offers this mot: “Welcome to the Warring Twenties!” Does that sound like the wit of a man whose mind is set on restraining the president’s martial impulses?
Fortunately for us, Hegseth has printed warnings all over his body. Let’s hope that Republicans in the Senate heed those signs.
Correction (December 2, 2024, 12:31 p.m. EST): An earlier version of this article misidentified the location of Hegseth’s tattoo with the Hebrew version of Jesus’s name; it is on his forearm, not his elbow.
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