AfD’s Rise, Supported by Elon Musk, Tests Germany’s Anti-Nazi Legacy

More controversial #AfD election ads. Left: “New Germans? We make them ourselves.” Right: “Islam? Doesn’t fit in with our cuisine.”

Berlin — In the heart of Berlin, where history whispers through every cobblestone and monument, a political storm brews. The Alternative für Deutschland (AfD), a far-right party founded in 2013, has risen from obscurity to prominence, shaking the foundations of Germany’s post-war political consensus.

Once a fringe group railing against the Eurozone, the AfD has morphed into a powerful voice for nationalism, anti-immigration sentiment, and skepticism toward the European Union.

Yet, its ascent is shadowed by Germany’s stringent anti-Nazi laws, a legal framework born from the ashes of the Third Reich, designed to prevent the resurgence of extremism. This clash between a modern political movement and a nation’s resolute past forms a narrative as complex as Germany itself.

The AfD’s rise began modestly, fueled by economists and Euroskeptics frustrated with Germany’s role in bailing out struggling EU economies. But by 2015, as refugees streamed into Germany amid Angela Merkel’s open-door policy, the party pivoted. Leaders like Alexander Gauland and Björn Höcke seized the moment, amplifying fears of cultural erosion and crime.

Their rhetoric—often steeped in nostalgia for a “pure” Germany—resonated with voters in the former East, where economic stagnation and disillusionment with reunification lingered. By 2025, the AfD commands significant support, polling over 20% nationally and dominating regional parliaments in states like Thuringia and Saxony.

Yet, this success comes with a cost

Germany’s anti-Nazi laws, enshrined in the Grundgesetz (Basic Law) and the Strafgesetzbuch (Criminal Code), are a bulwark against the ghosts of 1933. Section 130 prohibits incitement to hatred, including the dissemination of Nazi propaganda, while Section 86 bans the public use of Nazi symbols like the swastika, except for art or historical purposes.

These laws reflect Germany’s Vergangenheitsbewältigung—its reckoning with the past—and are enforced with vigilance. For the AfD, this legal landscape is a minefield. Höcke, a former history teacher, faced fines in 2024 for invoking the banned Nazi slogan “Alles für Deutschland” during a rally. He argued it was a patriotic call, not a Nazi echo, but courts disagreed, citing his knowledge of its historical weight.

The AfD walks a tightrope

Its leaders decry these laws as stifling free speech, claiming they’re wielded as political weapons by the establishment. Supporters see the party as a defender of German identity against globalization and multiculturalism, while critics—including intelligence agencies like the Verfassungsschutz—label factions of the AfD as extremist. The Thuringian branch, under Höcke’s influence, is officially monitored as a threat to democracy, its members accused of “whitewashing” Nazi crimes. This scrutiny fuels the party’s narrative of victimhood, rallying its base even as it alienates moderates.

In a small town near Dresden, Anna Müller, a 34-year-old nurse, embodies the AfD’s appeal. Raised in the post-reunification chaos of the East, she feels forgotten by Berlin’s elite. “The AfD listens,” she says, sipping coffee in a café adorned with faded DDR-era posters. “They’re not afraid to say what we’re all thinking: too many foreigners, too little for us.” Anna dismisses Nazi accusations as overblown. “Höcke’s fined for a phrase? That’s history, not today.” Her vote, like millions of others, propels the AfD forward, even as protests erupt in cities like Munich, where students chant “Nie wieder!”—never again.

The anti-Nazi laws, however, are not relics but living tools

In 2025, a court in Leipzig sentences a low-level AfD organizer to six months in prison for distributing pamphlets denying aspects of the Holocaust—a crime under Section 130. The ruling sparks outrage online, with AfD sympathizers decrying “thought police,” while human rights groups hail it as a necessary stand. Chancellor Lisa Kaufmann, a centrist grappling with a fractured coalition, defends the laws. “Our democracy was forged in the ruins of tyranny,” she declares in a televised address. “We cannot gamble with its soul.”

Yet, the AfD’s influence grows, exploiting cracks in Germany’s social fabric. Its policies—deporting undocumented migrants, exiting the EU, prioritizing “native” Germans—ignite fierce debate. In parliament, AfD MPs clash with rivals, their speeches often skirting the edge of legality. When Gauland once mused that the Nazi era was “a speck of bird droppings” in Germany’s history, he narrowly avoided prosecution, claiming metaphor, not denial. Such moments test the boundaries of free expression versus historical responsibility.

In Berlin’s Reichstag, where b once consolidated power, the AfD’s presence feels like an irony too bitter to swallow. Lawmakers from the Greens and SPD accuse the party of undermining the very democracy that hosts it. Meanwhile, the Verfassungsschutz warns of rising far-right violence—attacks on refugee centers, synagogue vandalism—linked to rhetoric the AfD denies inspiring. The laws, though robust, strain under modern pressures: digital platforms amplify extremist voices, and enforcement struggles to keep pace.

As Germany approaches its next election, the AfD’s fate—and the resilience of its anti-Nazi framework—hangs in balance. For supporters like Anna, it’s a fight for sovereignty; for opponents, a battle against history’s repetition. In this tension lies a nation’s soul, wrestling with how to honor its past while facing an uncertain future.

Germany’s Fascist AfD and the Shadow of Anti-Nazi Laws (Feb. 25, 2025)

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