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The Germany Crisis: Angela Merkel, refugees and the rise of the right

How Merkel’s handling of the refugee crisis emboldened the far right and led to troubling questions about her future as chancellor.

For Michael Rusheinsky, it all started in August 2015. Huge numbers of refugees were arriving. It was 35 degrees in the shade. There was no water. No food. No medical support. This was central Berlin – but it looked to him like Kabul. “There were volunteers from Doctors Without Borders who have worked in Gaza and Afghanistan but these were the worst conditions they have ever had to deal with,” he told me.

Rusheinsky was a jobbing actor at the time, but soon became a professional refugee handler, co-ordinating volunteers at the main reception centre in the German capital. He is a manifestation of what the tabloid Bild called “Helles Deutschland” – a light and moral Germany; yet as the country prepares for regional elections on 13 March, it is “Dunkles [‘dark’] Deutschland” that is capturing the headlines.

Most prominent is the rise of the right-wing populist Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) party, which is using the dislocation caused by the refugee crisis to shake up the German political scene. Not only is the AfD – Germany’s equivalent of Ukip – likely to pass the 5 per cent threshold for entering parliaments in all three states that are holding elections, it threatens to push the centre-left Social Democratic Party (SPD) into fourth place in Saxony-Anhalt and may get into double digits into Rhineland Palatinate and Baden-Württemberg. If it succeeds, it will break one of the cast-iron rules of postwar German politics – that no party to the right of the Christian Democratic Union/Christian Social Union (CDU/CSU) grouping should be allowed into the legislature.

The rise of the AfD is the most marked sign of the fraying of the Merkel supremacy. The party was founded in 2013, its name a response to the German chancellor’s frequent claims that there is no alternative to her policy on the euro (her favourite term for this, “alternativlos”, was elected Unwort des Jahres, “non-word of the year”, in 2010, at the height of her powers).

The novelty of the AfD, when it was launched by the economics professor Bernd Lucke and other activists, was that it was a bourgeois, right-wing party that was going to great lengths to disavow the neo-Nazi street. Lucke and the leadership went through all the applications to join the party and excluded anyone with negative associations. The result of this triage was that so many of its first official supporters had postgraduate degrees that the AfD was nicknamed “the professors’ party”. Its anti-euro stance (the founders wanted to split the euro into a northern European “neuro” and a southern “seuro”) helped it to take seven seats in the 2014 European parliamentary elections, but it had failed to win enough votes the previous year to enter the federal Bundestag.

Then in 2015, encouraged by Angela Merkel’s open-door policy, 1.1 million asylum-seekers arrived in Germany. The resulting refugee crisis has afforded the AfD a second chance. After a period of infighting, the party transformed itself into a more run-of-the-mill, populist, right-wing party. Lucke left in 2015 to found the Alliance for Progress and Departure, following the failure of his attempt to become the AfD’s sole leader. The more strident Frauke Petry – a self-made businesswoman from eastern Germany – emerged as the AfD’s main spokesperson, and was soon joined as co-leader by Jörg Meuthen, another professor of economics, from the west. Petry has succeeded in shifting the party to the right, concentrating less on the euro and more on issues such as migration, Islam and closer ties with Russia. This led a bitter Lucke to claim in July 2015 that the AfD was turning into a “PEGIDA party”, a reference to Germany’s far-right movement of “Patriotic Europeans Against the Islamisation of the West”, a label he had refuted as party leader.

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What is interesting about the AfD is what it tells us about the changes afoot in Germany. Its rise is a product of the constrained and elitist nature of German politics, in which – after the experience of Nazism – many subjects are declared to be outside the realm of political competition. All the mainstream parties are in favour of EU membership, the euro and the Atlantic alliance, and against war, inflation and nationalism.

What this leaves is a restricted political sphere where politicians have often been able to act against public opinion without fear of challenge – as in the decision to replace the popular Deutschmark with the strikingly unpopular euro in 1999. But those who dare to cross the threshold of political correctness tap in to a vast reservoir of pent-up popular frustration. And because the establishment cartel turns them into outcasts rather than arguing with their views, this reservoir continues to grow. A CSU minister recently told me that the German debate on refugees reminded him of the old East Germany, where there was a fundamental disconnection between what people thought and what they thought was acceptable to say in public. According to a recent poll, nearly half of all Germans are afraid to voice their opinion about the refugee crisis.

Today in Germany, ever greater numbers claim that they are unrepresented in the media and in politics. They claim the refugee crisis is leading to a clash of civilisations between the political and journalistic elites, on the one hand, and the (allegedly) censored, disenfranchised “masses” on the other, who express their discontent by appropriating the anti-Berlin Wall cry “Wir sind das Volk!” (“We are the people!”).

The AfD is making great play of standing up for two different groups that feel disenfranchised in Germany, still largely separated between east and west. In the east, the core audience is the young, white losers of globalisation who cannot find jobs or companions. In the west, it is more the educated middle class that supports the AfD. These western supporters are often not anti-immigration per se, but see the refugee crisis as proof of a loss of control by the state. A study by the Otto Brenner Stiftung, a Frankfurt-based research foundation, shows that the AfD, with its two very different leaders in Petry and Meuthen, is using separate strategies for the east and west of the country, a tactic that seems to be working: the party is polling at 11 per cent in the west and 14 per cent in the east. In the west the party tries to portray itself as a moderate and educated option for the middle class, while in the east it is unashamedly populist.

The common thread behind the two groups is frustration with the political class. In fact, the word most often invoked in ­discussing the AfD is “Wut” – a visceral expression probably best translated as “rage”. The newspapers are full of talk about die Wutbürger, or enraged citizens, and the media have characterised one of the party’s key figures, Marc Jongen, a professor of philosophy at the small University of Arts and Design in Karlsruhe, as the Wutdenker: the “philosopher of rage”. Jongen is the AfD vice-chairman in Baden-Württemberg, one of the three states that will be holding elections this month. He has played up to the image of philosopher-king, writing an intellectual manifesto for the party which talks about the AfD as a spectre haunting the German establishment and which – he claims – is opposed by the country’s elites, from the Catholic Church to the chancellor and the president.

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The 13 March elections in the three states are being presented as a referendum on Merkel’s refugee policy. A recent poll showed that 81 per cent of German citizens believe her government has lost control of the crisis. There is still significant support for the Wilkommenskultur, as shown by the actor-turned-refugee-helper Michael Rusheinsky, and encapsulated in Merkel’s many statements that the welcoming reaction of many citizens around Germany shows the greatness of the country and its people. But the way the crisis has been handled goes against the trinity of order, predictability and balanced budgets that has defined the Federal Republic of Germany.

And yet Merkel is sticking firm to her refusal to close the borders and set a limit for inward migration. “I have no plan B,” she said last Sunday. “There’s no sense in working on two [plans] at the same time.” Many people have been puzzled by the way that this most pragmatic of politicians appears to have found an ideological core. Some claim that it is a product of her biography: with her background in East Germany, she does not want to be the chancellor who presides over the erection of new walls in Europe.

Others even see her predicament as a function of her pragmatism and scientific rationalism. She did not precipitate the crisis; she did not issue any pronouncements until huge numbers were already flowing into Germany, and then she simply described the status quo. Now that the crisis is here she refuses to sign up to ideas – such as a cap on refugee numbers – that will make no difference to the situation and will set her  on a slippery slope to closing the borders.

Whatever the reasoning, this stance has changed her role for ever. The über-realist, who never seemed much out of step with public opinion, has set herself down a path that many of her countrymen – as well as other countries in Europe – refuse to follow.

The consequences for the European Union could be even more drastic than those for Germany. Over the past five years, as Brussels lost the ability to lead a plethora of crises and to create trade-offs across different policy areas, Germany – and Merkel in particular – became the essential glue in a new, intergovernmental Europe on every issue from the euro and Ukraine to the British Question and the refugee crisis.

Yet the paradox of German power is that the more it has been exercised, the less it is desired and obeyed. From Paris and Rome to Budapest and Warsaw, there are complaints that the nature of German leadership is changing, and that the Germans are behaving in an increasingly hegemonic way to deal with a refugee crisis that many argue they have brought upon themselves.

The way Berlin has pushed through the relocation of refugees against the EU consensus – with quotas of refugees for all member states – has dealt a blow to German soft power. And the way member states that signed up to these have got away without implementing them has damaged Germany’s hard power. We are seeing a political geography emerging in Europe characterised by unilateral action and coalitions of the willing, rather than common action agreed in Brussels. There is a continent-sized gulf between rational ideas about European action and national politics in the EU 28.

So, will the regional elections end the Merkel era? For months already, members of the German elite have been talking about her in the way Tory MPs talked about Margaret Thatcher during the poll-tax riots: as if she had lost her grip on reality and her ability to adapt to circumstances. In December, I had lunch with a group that included a prominent businessman, a national newspaper editor and a couple of CDU politicians. Even before the drinks arrived, they began playing the parlour game of the moment: imagining alternatives to Merkel.

The discussion started by thinking about trigger points for her ejection or voluntary departure (there has been speculation that she might go to New York to become the next UN secretary general). Then there was talk about the finance minister, Wolfgang Schäuble, her only possible successor in the short term, and questions about his health, the policy options open to him, plus the fear that the SPD would not accept him and would call an election. In fact, the CDU/SPD grand coalition, which enjoys a super-majority in the Bundestag, has helped Merkel hang on to power, because it gives the SPD a de facto veto on her successor. A close associate of hers thinks she will use this electoral arithmetic to cling on to power: “It is almost impossible to dislodge a sitting chancellor, so they will have to pull her out of the chancellery by the hair.”

When pundits envisage the longer term they can think of options for political renewal – including the rising star of Merkel’s party, Julia Klöckner – but there is a familiar structure to the conversations, as in the one in which I took part, about the short term. Nobody feels that the status quo can hold, yet no one can see how to change it. And so our debate, like many others, foundered on the central problem of contemporary German politics. For now, whatever Frauke Petry and Jörg Meuthen would like to believe, there is no alternative.

Mark Leonard is the director of the European Council on Foreign Relations

This article first appeared in the 03 March 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Germany's migrant crisis

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The people is sublime: the long history of populism, from Robespierre to Trump

If liberal democracy is to survive, the tide of populism will have to be turned back. The question is: how?

A spectre of populism is haunting the world’s liberal democracies. Donald Trump’s victory in the US presidential election, the narrow Leave majority in the EU referendum, Theresa May’s decision to call a snap election – breaking the spirit of the Fixed-Term Parliaments Act passed by the government of which she was a member – and Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s victory in the recent Turkish referendum all testify to the strength of the populist tide that is sweeping through the North Atlantic world. The consequences have been calamitous: a shrunken public realm, a demeaned civic culture, threatened minorities, contempt for the rule of law and an increasingly ugly public mood. If liberal democracy is to survive, the tide will have to be turned back. The question is: how?

The first essential is to understand the nature of the beast. This is more difficult than it sounds. Most democratic politicians seek popularity, but populism and popularity are not the same. Today’s populism is the descendant of a long line of ancestors. The first unmistakably populist movement in history appeared well over two centuries ago during the later stages of the French Revolution. It was led by Robespierre (Thomas Carlyle’s “sea-green incorruptible”) and the Jacobins who promised a reign of “virtue”. They were inspired by the cloudy prose of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who believed that mere individuals should be subject to the general will of the social whole and – if necessary – “forced to be free”. As the revolution gathered pace and foreign armies mustered on France’s frontiers, the Jacobins launched the first organised, state-led and ideologically legitimised Terror in history. Chillingly, Robespierre declared, “The people is sublime, but individuals are weak.” That is the cry of populists through the ages. Appropriately, the Terror ended with Robespierre lying on a plank, screaming with pain before he was executed by guillotine.

The French Revolution – which began with the storming of the Bastille and ended with Napoleon’s ascent to an ersatz imperial throne – has an epic quality about it missing from later chapters in the populist story. Ironically, the second chapter, which opened half a century later, was the work of Louis Bonaparte, nephew of the great Napoleon. In 1848 came a second revolution and a second Republic; Louis Bonaparte was elected president by a huge majority. He tried and failed to amend the constitution to make it possible for him to have a second term; and then seized power in a coup d’état. Soon afterwards he became emperor as Napoleon III. (“Napoleon le petit”, in Victor Hugo’s savage phrase.) The whole story provoked one of Karl Marx’s best aphorisms: “History repeats itself; the first time as tragedy and the second as farce.”

There have been plenty of tragedies since – and plenty of farces, too. Trump’s victory was a tragedy, but farcical elements are already in evidence. Erdogan’s victory was even more tragic than Trump’s, but farce is conspicuously absent. The Leave victory in the referendum was tragic: arguably, the greatest tragedy in the three-century history of Britain’s union state. As with Trump, farce is already in evidence – the agitated comings and goings that have followed Theresa May’s loss of her Commons majority; the inane debate over the nature of the Brexit that Britain should seek; and the preposterous suggestion that, freed of the “Brussels” incubus, Britain will be able to conclude costless trade deals with the state-capitalist dictatorship of China and the “America First” neo-isolationists in Washington, DC. Unlike the French farce of Napoleon III’s Second Empire, however, the British farce now in progress is more likely to provoke tears than laughter.


Picture: André Carrilho

Populism is not a doctrine or a governing philosophy, still less an ideology. It is a disposition, perhaps a mood, a set of attitudes and above all a style. The People’s Party, which played a significant part in American politics in the late 19th century, is a case in point. The farmers whose grievances inspired the People’s Party wanted cheaper credit and transport to carry their products to markets in the eastern states. Hence the party’s two main proposals. One was the nationalisation of the railways, to cheapen transport costs; the other was “free silver” – the use of silver as well as gold as currency, supposedly to cheapen credit. Even then, this was not a particularly radical programme. It was designed to reform capitalism, not to replace it, as the largely Marxist social-democratic parties of Europe were seeking to do.

Rhetoric was a different matter. Mary Elizabeth Lease, a prominent member of the People’s Party, declared that America’s was no longer a government of the people by the people and for the people, but “a government of Wall Street, by Wall Street and for Wall Street”. The common people of America, she added, “are slaves and monopoly is the master”.

The Georgian populist Tom Watson once asked if Thomas Jefferson had dreamed that the party he founded would be “prostituted to the vilest purposes of monopoly” or that it would be led by “red-eyed Jewish millionaires”. The People’s Party’s constitutive Omaha Platform accused the two main parties of proposing “to sacrifice our homes, lives and children on the altar of Mammon; to destroy the multitude in order to secure corruption funds from the millionaires”. The party’s aim was “to restore the government of the Republic to the hands of ‘the plain people’ with which class it originated”. Theodore Roosevelt promised “to walk softly and carry a big stick”. The People’s Party walked noisily and carried a small stick. Jeremy Corbyn would have been at home in it.

Almost without exception, populists promise national regeneration in place of decline, decay and the vacillations and tergiversations of a corrupt establishment and the enervated elites that belong to it. Trump’s call to “make America great again” is an obvious recent case. His attacks on “crooked Hillary”, on the courts that have impeded his proposed ban on Muslim immigrants from capriciously chosen Middle Eastern and African countries, on the “fake news” of journalists seeking to hold his administration to account, and, most of all, his attack on the constitutional checks and balances that have been fundamental to US governance for more than 200 years, are the most alarming examples of populist practice, not just in American history but in the history of most of the North Atlantic world.

There are intriguing parallels between Trump’s regime and Erdogan’s. Indeed, Trump went out of his way to congratulate Erdogan on Turkey’s referendum result in April – which gives him the right to lengthen his term of office to ten years, to strengthen his control over the judiciary and to decide when to impose a state of emergency. Even before the referendum, he had dismissed more than 100,000 public servants, including teachers, prosecutors, judges and army officers; 4,000 were imprisoned. The Kurdish minority was – and is – repressed. True, none of this applies to Trump. But the rhetoric of the thin-skinned, paranoid US president and his equally thin-skinned and paranoid Turkish counterpart comes from the same repertoire. In the Turkish referendum Erdogan declared: “My nation stood upright and undivided.” It might have been Trump clamorously insisting that the crowd at his inauguration was bigger than it was.

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The best-known modern British populists – Margaret Thatcher, Nigel Farage and David Owen – form a kind of counterpoint. In some ways, all three have harked back to the themes of the 19th-century American populists. Thatcher insisted that she was “a plain, straightforward provincial”, adding that her “Bloomsbury” was Grantham – “Methodism, the grocer’s shop, Rotary and all the serious, sober virtues, cultivated and esteemed in that environment”. Farage declared that the EU referendum was “a victory for ‘the real people’ of Britain” – implying, none too subtly, that the 48 per cent who voted Remain were somehow unreal or, indeed, un-British.

On a holiday job on a building site during the Suez War, Owen experienced a kind of epiphany. Hugh Gaitskell was criticising Anthony Eden, the prime minister, on television and in the House of Commons, but Owen’s workmates were solidly in favour of Eden. That experience, he said, made him suspicious of “the kind of attitude which splits the difference on everything. The rather defeatist, even traitorous attitude reflected in the pre-war Apostles at Cambridge.” (Owen voted for Brexit in 2016.)

Did he really believe that Bertrand Russell, John Maynard Keynes and George Moore were traitorous? Did he not know that they were Apostles? Or was he simply lashing out, Trump-like, at an elite that disdained him – and to which he yearned to belong?

Thatcher’s Grantham, Farage’s real people and David Owen’s workmates came from the same rhetorical stable as the American populists’ Omaha Platform. But the American populists really were plain, in their sense of the word, whereas Thatcher, Farage and Owen could hardly have been less so. Thatcher (at that stage Roberts) left Grantham as soon as she could and never looked back. She went to Somerville College, Oxford, where she was a pupil of the Nobel laureate Dorothy Hodgkin. She married the dashing and wealthy Denis Thatcher and abandoned science to qualify as a barrister before being elected to parliament and eventually becoming prime minister. Farage worked as a metals trader in the City before becoming leader of the UK Independence Party. Owen went to the private Bradfield College before going up to Cambridge to read medicine. Despite his Welsh antecedents, he looks and sounds like a well-brought-up English public school boy. He was elected to parliament in 1966 at the age of 28 and was appointed under-secretary for the navy at 30. He then served briefly as foreign secretary in James Callaghan’s miserable Labour government in the 1970s.

Much the same is true of Marine Le Pen in France. She is a hereditary populist – something that seems self-contradictory. The Front National (FN) she heads was founded by her father, Jean-Marie Le Pen – Holocaust denier, anti-Semite, former street brawler and sometime Poujadist. In the jargon of public relations, she has worked hard to “de-toxify” the FN brand. But the Front is still the Front; it appeals most strongly to the ageing and insecure in the de-industrialised areas of the north-east. Marine Le Pen applauded the Leave victory in Britain’s referendum – she seeks to limit immigration, just as Ukip did in the referendum and as the May government does now.

Above all, the Front National appeals to a mythologised past, symbolised by the figure of Joan of Arc. Joan was a simple, illiterate peasant from an obscure village in north-eastern France, who led the French king’s forces to a decisive victory over the English in the later stages of the Hundred Years War. She was captured by England’s Burgundian allies, and the English burned her at the stake at the age of 19. She was beatified in 1909 and canonised in 1920. For well over a century, she has been a heroine for the Catholic French right, for whom the revolutionary triad of liberté, egalité, fraternité is either vacuous or menacing.

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The past to which the FN appeals is uniquely French. It is also contentious. A struggle over the ownership of the French past has been a theme of French politics ever since the French Revolution. But other mythologised pasts have figured again and again in populist rhetoric and still do. Mussolini talked of returning to the time of the Roman empire when the Mediterranean was Mare Nostrum. Trump’s “Make America great again” presupposes a past when America was great, and from which present-day Americans have strayed, thanks to Clintonesque crooks and the pedlars of fake news. “Take back control” – the mantra of the Brexiteers in the referendum – presupposes a past in which the British had control; Owen’s bizarre pre-referendum claim that, if Britain left the EU, she would be free to “rediscover the skills of blue water diplomacy” presupposed a time when she practised those skills. Vladimir Putin, another populist of sorts, is patently trying to harness memories of tsarist glory to his chariot wheels. Margaret Thatcher, the “plain, straightforward provincial” woman, sought to revive the “vigorous virtues” of her Grantham childhood and the “Victorian values” that underpinned them.

As well as mythologising the past, populists mythologise the people. Those for whom they claim to speak are undifferentiated, homogeneous and inert. Populists have nothing but contempt for de Tocqueville’s insight that the ever-present threat of majority tyranny can be kept at bay only by a rich array of intermediate institutions, including townships, law courts and a free press, underpinned by the separation of powers.

For populists, the threat of majority tyranny is a phantom, invented by out-of-touch and craven elitists. Law courts that stand in the way of the unmediated popular will are “enemies of the people”, as the Daily Mail put it. There is no need to protect minorities against the tyranny of the majority: minorities are either part of the whole, in which case they don’t need protection, or self-excluded from it, in which case they don’t deserve to be protected.

Apparent differences of interest or value that cut across the body of the people, that divide the collective sovereign against itself, are products of elite manipulation or, in Thatcher’s notorious phrase, of “the enemy within”. For there is a strong paranoid streak in the populist mentality. Against the pure, virtuous people stand corrupt, privileged elites and sinister, conspiratorial subversives. The latter are forever plotting to do down the former.

Like pigs searching for truffles, populists search for subversives. Inevitably, they find what they are looking for. Joe McCarthy was one of the most squalid examples of the populist breed: for years, McCarthyism was a baneful presence in Hollywood, in American universities, newspaper offices and in the public service, ruining lives, restricting free expression and making it harder for the United States to win the trust of its European allies. The barrage of hatred and contempt that the tabloid press unleashed on opponents of Theresa May’s pursuit of a “hard” Brexit is another example. Her astounding claim that a mysterious entity known as “Brussels” was seeking to interfere in the British general election is a third.

As the Princeton political scientist Jan-Werner Müller argues, all of this strikes at the heart of democratic governance. Democracy depends on open debate, on dialogue between the bearers of different values, in which the protagonists learn from each other and from which they emerge as different people. For the Nobel laureate, philosopher and economist Amartya Sen, democracy is, above all, “public reasoning”; and that is impossible without social spaces in which reasoning can take place. Populism is singular; democracy is plural. The great question for non-populists is how to respond to the populist threat.

Two answers are in contention. The first is Theresa May’s. It amounts to appeasement. May’s purported reason for calling a snap general election was that the politicians were divided, whereas the people were united. It is hard to think of a better – or more frightening – summary of the spirit of populism. The second answer is Emmanuel Macron’s. For the moment, at least, he is astonishingly popular in France. More important, his victory over Le Pen has shown that, given intelligence, courage and generosity of spirit, the noxious populist tide can be resisted and, perhaps, turned back. 

David Marquand’s most recent book is “Mammon’s Kingdom”: an Essay on Britain Now” (Allen Lane)

This article first appeared in the 03 March 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Germany's migrant crisis