AfD appeal grows in some German cities as Björn Höcke calls for ‘180-degree shift’ in view of Nazi past

The Friendship Among Nations Square in Erfurt is a grand name for a narrow, modernist shopping precinct, as plain as the rest of this eastern German city is pretty.
On this weekday afternoon a middle-aged and older crowd have come for a “summer festival” of the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) party. They nod and applaud warnings from onstage speakers about Germany’s social and economic decline through “eco-totalitarianism”.
The strident rhetoric, strong sun and free beer mean the crowd – in particular a large cohort of heavyset middle-aged men – is warmed-up when Björn Höcke appears.
In his precise, middle-class diction and slim-fit white shirt, the 52-year-old, grey-haired history teacher is a contrast to his audience. After a decade in politics, though, the local AfD leader knows how to speak his supporters’ language.
“Those who know me, know I’m a reserved person,” says Höcke before launching into a 40-minute tirade against modern Germany’s “woke totalitarian dictatorship” that is pushing “more immigration, more multiculturalism, more inflation, more de-industrialisation, more gender gaga, higher energy prices, less security”.
He adds conspiracy theories to the mix: the Covid-19 pandemic was “a fake”, the migration crisis is part of a “great replacement” plan to “abolish” the native German population.
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“I want to live in a country that’s not just called Germany, but is Germany,” says Höcke to the loudest cheers of all. “This land is on its head and needs to be put back on its feet.”
Not all on the square agree. In a far corner, a young woman plays the guitar and sings defiant 1930s anti-fascist songs. In another corner, a crowd of 50 mostly younger people, watched closely by police, chant “Björn Höcke is a Nazi”.
This is a miniature version of the drama playing out this summer in towns and cities across eastern Germany – and Thuringia in particular.
With just 2.1 million people, this is Germany’s smallest state by population. For centuries, though, it has inspired poets, inventors, democrats and extremists. Nearby Weimar gave us the first German democracy in 1918; locals, a decade later, were early adopters of fascism; in 1937 near Weimar came the Buchenwald concentration camp.
And on September 1st, Thuringia – and neighbouring Saxony – could trigger a dramatic shift in post-unification German politics.
Poll numbers indicate nearly every second voter here rejects established political parties in favour of new, untested or extreme groups – led by the AfD.
The AfD was founded a decade ago as a euro-bailout protest movement. Höcke has moulded its Thuringian wing into the AfD’s most extreme branch and Thuringia’s most popular political party, with a steady 30 per cent support in polls.
While opinions differ over his influence within the wider AfD, no one doubts his long-term ambition.
“We want to start a revolution here in Thuringia,” shouts Höcke to the Erfurt crowd, “and on September 1st we can make history”.
With no allies willing to share power with his AfD – even accepting its parliamentary backing is taboo – Höcke will be happy with a one-third blocking minority in the state parliament here in Erfurt.
In that way, his party can influence state policy and appointments to public institutions, including the courts.
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Many see Höcke’s political success in co-opting – and scrambling – old narratives about eastern Germany and the post-unification era.
Three decades of national and EU investment have brought modern infrastructure and restored historical old towns that crumbled under four decades of socialism.
Millions of tourists visit Thuringia’s forests and hilltop castles annually, but local salaries remain a third below the national average and the state is second last in Germany’s 16-state economic league table.
As the only party in the election never to have governed in Thuringia, the AfD has tapped into easterners’ feelings of being ignored twice over: lingering loss of status in the past and pressing political concerns in the present.
The last years of polycrisis – immigration, pandemic and inflation – have compounded a latent wariness here towards institutions and outsiders.
For all the regional specifics of the AfD surge, a 2023 survey from the University of Münster sees a common thread with right-wing populist success elsewhere in Europe: a feeling among voters “that politics interferes in their day-to-day life”.
“They feel politics expects them to welcome supporting migrants with their tax revenue, accept new gender roles and alternative lifestyles – and to tame their pride for their own state,” notes the sociological study.
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Thuringia is a state of smaller cities and large rural communities. Their local identity is as strong as memories of structural decline and the exodus of about a quarter of its population since 1990. All this, analysts say, makes the state uniquely primed for AfD messaging. And for Björn Höcke.
A western German married to an easterner, Höcke cultivated a private interest in identity politics and revisionist history for decades in private long before his gradual coming out a decade ago.
Critical of what the AfD calls postwar Germany’s “guilt cult”, he has called for a “180-degree shift” in how the country views its Nazi past. The AfD, he has argued, is the “last evolutionary chance” to save Germany and Europe.
After squeezing out AfD conservatives and moderates, Höcke and his allies embraced the refugee crisis and the power of provocation. His most recent provocation was a Nazi-era slogan, “everything for Germany”. The former history teacher insisted he was unaware of its origins; a court fined him €13,000 anyway.
Far-right allies praise Höcke’s talent for “constructive destruction”; rivals despair at how his AfD’s mastery of social media has created a post-factual political landscape where emotion – in particular outrage – is now the key to unlock popular support.
For Thuringian state premier Bodo Ramelow of the Left Party, unlikely to be returned for another term in Erfurt, Björn Höcke is a “snotty brat” and his party an authoritarian threat to democracy.
“They are able to suck up support in a way we have never seen before in Germany,” says Ramelow.
As an example, he mentions the fuss over “remigration” – deporting German citizens the AfD considers not German enough. The policy has attracted support in Thuringia though many sectors here – from gastronomy to healthcare – are struggling with an ageing, shrinking population.
“People shouting ‘remigration’ and ‘foreigners out’ will destroy this state,” says Ramelow.
Back at the AfD rally, local plumber Peter and his three friends cheer loudest when Höcke promises to “end illegal immigration”.
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“Just because of our 12 dark years, from 1933 to 1945, we Germans struggle to discuss migration honestly,” says Peter, “and the people who do so, like Höcke, are quickly dubbed Nazis”.
A short distance away, watched closely by a wall of police in riot gear, anti-fascist protesters hold signs reading “Voting for the AfD is so 1933”.
Waving brochures towards uninterested passersby, 42-year-old local woman Sabine fears the September 1st vote will be “a catastrophe” for Thuringia – and her family.
“I’m married to a Turkish-German man and took his surname, so families like us increasingly feel no longer welcome here,” she says. “The AfD have let a genie out of the bottle.”