He's just this violence robot in a weird dystopic hell
A man who once sought belonging in Hollywood's creative world has become one of Latin America's most influential voices of male grievance, reaching 11 million followers under the name El Temach and earning $1.5 million annually by teaching young men that women are the architects of their suffering. The BBC's investigation traces how algorithmic reward systems and a generation of men who feel unseen have created fertile ground for ideologies that, in their most extreme expressions, have moved from screens into locked rooms and threats of violence. This is not simply a story about one man's transformation, but about the infrastructure — economic, technological, and psychological — that turns personal bitterness into a global export.
- A man who once auditioned for Hollywood roles now runs a multimillion-dollar operation built on telling young men that women, feminism, and single mothers are the cause of their pain.
- His own sister watches the transformation with grief, describing a brother who began with genuine concern for struggling men and arrived somewhere she no longer recognizes — a figure she refuses to call by his online name.
- Across South Asia, East Asia, Latin America, and Africa, manosphere influencers have tripled their followings in three years, feeding on a generation of young men who believe society has turned against them.
- A Mexican doctor described being locked in a room for four hours by an ex-partner who forced her to watch El Temach videos as justification for his control — and who threatened to kill her before the night was over.
- When the BBC sought accountability, El Temach's team dismissed the findings as unfounded, and the man himself told the network on a livestream that men do not need their permission to exist.
Luis Castilleja moved to Los Angeles with the ambitions of a young actor, absorbing the city's liberal culture while chasing roles that never quite came. After a breakup and the slow defeat of stalled dreams, he returned to Mexico and began posting content about male self-development. His sister Alex, a design engineer, remembers those early videos as genuinely well-intentioned. Something shifted.
Today he is El Temach, commanding more than 11 million followers across Latin America with a message that locates the source of men's suffering in women themselves — in single mothers, in feminists, in what he frames as female selfishness and manipulation. Between April 2025 and April 2026, he earned an estimated $1.5 million from social media views, with hundreds of thousands more from paid livestream interactions, workshops at $800 a seat, merchandise, and stage shows. A BBC investigation documented the full architecture of this enterprise.
Alex believes her brother saw what figures like Andrew Tate had built and followed the blueprint. She suspects he experiments with what the algorithm rewards and may not believe everything he says — but she has also watched his ideology seep into how he treats her personally, reframing any opinion she expresses as feminist attack. When the BBC attended one of his Las Vegas shows, they found a performance that blended self-improvement rhetoric with explicit contempt for women. Afterward, his security prevented reporters from approaching him.
A BBC World Service investigation of 15 manosphere influencers across four regions found their followings had tripled on average in three years. Researchers point to societies experiencing recent gains in gender equality as particularly vulnerable to this backlash content. A King's College London survey found 57 percent of Gen Z men globally believe society has discriminated against men in the name of promoting women's equality.
Two young Mexican men gave the BBC access to years of their social media histories. One, Julián, encountered El Temach at 16 through a fitness recommendation and spent the following years absorbing manosphere content from dozens of creators. After a breakup at 19, his engagement spiked and his comments grew openly hostile toward women. He later expressed regret about the tone but not the underlying beliefs.
The human cost arrived most sharply in the account of Fernanda, a doctor from Mexico City. On the day she ended her relationship with another doctor, he locked her in a room and forced her to watch El Temach videos for four hours, using them as evidence that she, not he, was in the wrong. The situation escalated into death threats. She does not hold El Temach solely responsible, but she believes his content gave her ex-partner permission to stop concealing who he already was.
El Temach's team rejected the BBC's findings as unfounded and taken out of context. He has offered no acknowledgment of what his words do once they leave the screen.
Luis Castilleja once dreamed of making it as an actor in Hollywood. He moved to Los Angeles with the ambitions of a young performer, soaking in the liberal culture of the city, trying to book roles and build a career in entertainment. That version of him no longer exists, at least not in any way his sister would recognize.
Today he is known as El Temach, and he commands an audience of more than 11 million people across Latin America and beyond. His content is relentlessly focused on male grievance and female blame. He tells his followers that single mothers are poor life choices made flesh, that women are gold diggers, that feminism has rendered men invisible and wronged. He has built something vast and profitable from this message. Between April 2025 and April 2026, he earned an estimated $1.5 million from social media views alone. Another $200,000 to $300,000 came from YouTube Super Chats, where fans pay money to have their comments highlighted during his livestreams. He charges $800 per person for small-group workshops. There is merchandise. There are stage shows. A BBC investigation documented all of this, and more.
His sister Alex, a design engineer from Mexico, agreed to speak about the transformation. She does not call him by his online name. "I don't like saying El Temach because for me he's a completely different person," she told the BBC. "So I'm sister with the human that he was." She remembers a brother who returned to Mexico after his acting dreams stalled, after a breakup, after the rejection that comes with trying to make it in Hollywood. He wanted to help other men navigate those same difficulties. In 2020, he began posting content about male self-development. "I think at the beginning it was very noble," Alex said. But something shifted. The messaging twisted. He developed what she calls a Messiah complex, convinced he alone could fix men's problems. And he began to locate the source of those problems in women themselves.
Alex believes her brother saw what Andrew Tate was doing—the money, the attention, the algorithmic rewards—and decided to follow that blueprint. She suspects he copies what works, experiments with what the algorithm favors, and may not fully believe everything he says. But she also knows the content has seeped into his actual behavior toward her. Any opinion she expressed was reframed as feminist ideology, as a personal attack on his identity. When the BBC asked him to participate in a documentary, he initially agreed, then went live on YouTube days before filming was scheduled to begin. "BBC and Miss Jacqui from the BBC, we don't need your permission to be men," he said, before telling them not to involve him or his followers.
The BBC attended one of his shows in Las Vegas anyway. It was a mixture of self-improvement rhetoric and explicit misogyny. He advised his fans to avoid "sluts" because they will never change. He told them single mothers are not worth pursuing because their status reflects character flaws and poor decisions. When reporters tried to confront him afterward, his security blocked their way.
A BBC World Service investigation examined 15 manosphere influencers across South Asia, East Asia, Latin America, and Africa. On average, their followings have tripled in the past three years. These are regions that have seen relatively recent gains in gender equality, and researchers say this environment is fueling demand for the content. Young men in these places are absorbing a narrative that feminism has gone too far, that men's problems are being ignored, that women are the obstacle to male success. A global survey by King's College London found that 57 percent of Gen Z men agreed that society has discriminated against men in the name of promoting women's equality.
Two young followers gave the BBC access to years of their social media activity. Julián, from Mexico, was 16 when he started using Instagram, liking content about fitness and self-improvement. A few months later, an El Temach video appeared in his recommended feed. He liked it. Then he liked thousands more—from El Temach and dozens of other manosphere creators. By 19, he had internalized the messaging. When his relationship ended in late 2023, his engagement with the content spiked. He began calling women "sluts" in his comments. He praised female subservience. When asked about it later, he said he regretted the tone but stood by the substance.
Fernanda, a doctor from Mexico City, experienced the real-world consequences of this ideology. Her ex-partner, also a doctor, used El Temach's messaging to justify controlling behavior. On the day they broke up, he locked her in a room and forced her to watch El Temach videos for four hours. "He kept saying: 'See? I'm not doing anything wrong… You're the one who's wrong,'" she recalled. The situation escalated. He threatened to kill her. "His eyes were empty, he was acting purely on impulse," she said. "In that moment, I was really very afraid." She does not blame El Temach directly, but she believes the content gave her ex-partner permission to stop hiding who he was. "I think he was already a sexist who was hiding it. But El Temach influenced him to no longer feel bad about it."
When asked to respond to allegations that he promotes misogynistic content, El Temach's team rejected the claims as unfounded and taken out of context. He has not acknowledged the impact his words have on the men who consume them, or on the women in their lives.
Citações Notáveis
I don't like saying El Temach because for me he's a completely different person. So I'm sister with the human that he was.— Alex, El Temach's sister
I think he knows what he's doing on some level. I think that he sees and realises that if he ever owns up to what he did, it'll destroy him.— Alex, El Temach's sister
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
How does someone go from wanting to be an actor in Los Angeles to building a career on telling men that women are the problem?
The sister's account suggests it wasn't a sudden ideological conversion. He came back to Mexico after failure and heartbreak, genuinely wanting to help other men. But somewhere in that impulse to help, he discovered that blaming women got more attention, more engagement, more money. Once he saw the algorithm rewarding that message, he kept pushing it further.
Do you think he actually believes what he's saying?
His sister isn't sure either. She thinks he believes some of it and experiments with the rest—whatever works. But at a certain point, the distinction probably stops mattering. He's built an entire identity and income stream on this messaging. Admitting it's harmful would mean dismantling everything.
Why is this content spreading so effectively in Latin America and other developing regions?
These are places where gender equality is still relatively new. Young men are experiencing real changes in their social position, and they're being told those changes are unfair, that feminism has wronged them. The manosphere influencers offer a simple explanation: women are the problem. That narrative is seductive when you're confused about your place in the world.
The story about Fernanda is haunting. Do you think El Temach bears responsibility for what her ex-partner did?
She doesn't blame him directly, and that's probably fair. But the content clearly gave her ex-partner a framework for his abuse, a way to justify it to himself and to her. He was already controlling. El Temach just removed his shame about it. That's a kind of responsibility, even if it's not the same as causing the violence.
What does his sister think will happen to him?
She thinks he's trapped. He's built something too big to walk away from. If he ever admitted the harm, it would collapse. So he denies it, blocks journalists, tells his followers the BBC is the enemy. He's become what he created—a character performing for an algorithm, unable to step out of the role.