Whatever the outcome of Sunday’s state election in Saxony-Anhalt, the vote serves as a stark signal that the foundations of modern Germany are under immense strain.
The far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD), which has been classified as extremist by the German government, is poised to secure the largest share of the vote. Polling at over 40%, the party holds a commanding lead over its closest rivals, who remain in the low twenties. In certain scenarios, the AfD could even capture an outright majority of seats in the state legislature.
Such an outcome would mark the first time a far-right party has controlled a German state since the end of World War II. The prospect carries profound historical weight, representing a dramatic challenge to the postwar German order. For decades, Germany’s government, culture, and education systems have been meticulously designed to prevent precisely this kind of political breakthrough.
The postwar German political system was constructed around a singular, foundational principle: “never again.” Yet, the very real possibility of a far-right party winning state elections this weekend exposes the fragility of that consensus. While the AfD denies being antidemocratic, it actively champions a vision of putting Germany on an entirely new path. For years, the nation has anchored its identity in its leadership role within a broader, more open Europe, alongside a culture of remembrance that keeps the horrors of the Nazi regime ever fresh in public consciousness. The party’s rising success highlights mounting internal tensions over whether this foundational identity endures at the core of the modern German state, or if it has outlived its usefulness.
Marcus Böick, a professor of German history at Cambridge University, argues that such a victory would defy the legacy of “never again”—a cornerstone of Germany’s remembrance culture. “The prospect could be seen as a watershed moment,” he notes.
At the AfD’s final pre-election rally on Thursday in the state capital, Magdeburg, a crowd of 6,000 is buzzing with energy. For many Germans, flying the national flag traditionally brings a sense of discomfort, rooted in a deep fear of nationalism run amok. At this rally, however, German flags fly everywhere.
Ulrich Siegmund rides on a tractor during a campaign rally ahead of the Saxony-Anhalt election, in Klein-Wanzleben, Germany, Aug. 31, 2026.
The desire for dramatic change is palpable. Gerda Werner grins broadly as she listens to speakers advocate for deporting migrants and challenge Chancellor Friedrich Merz’s unpopular government. The grandmotherly figure, with vibrant red hair and sunglasses, insists that Germany has no other choice.
“We must change,” she says. “All the other parties talk and do nothing.”
For the AfD to secure a majority of seats, several smaller parties would need to fall below the 5% threshold of the vote. Under German electoral law, parties failing to reach this threshold are excluded from the legislature, with their votes apportioned among the larger parties.
If the AfD falls short of a legislative majority, the other major parties—ranging from the conservative Christian Democratic Union to the far-left Die Linke—would likely unite to block the AfD from taking power. This informal agreement, known as the “firewall,” has long served as a collective barrier against the far right.
Yet, this dynamic highlights the growing tensions reshaping German politics. In Saxony-Anhalt, these tensions reflect a different kind of political wall: the former West and East Germany are formally reunited, but far from unified.
SOURCE:
Federal Statistical Office of Germany
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Jacob Turcotte/Staff
Saxony-Anhalt is located in the former East Germany, a region where Dr. Böick grew up under communist rule. Looking back, he finds it almost wondrous that doctors, teachers, and factory workers all lived in his same apartment block. “We didn’t have the wealth of the West, but we were all in it together,” he reflects.
Life back then centered on the factories and the Communist Party, encompassing everything from festivals to youth groups. When East Germany collapsed, all of that vanished. “The whole fabric of Eastern German society was disrupted massively,” Dr. Böick adds. “No one filled those gaps.”
Until the AfD came along. Today, a map of voting patterns from last year’s federal elections resembles a return of the Soviet-era division between East and West. In a way, it has. The AfD finished first across the former East Germany. While the largest traditional parties have their roots in the West, the AfD has established itself as the people’s party of the East, embedding itself deeply in numerous local clubs and organizations.
Historic half-timbered construction surrounds the central plaza in Quedlinburg, Germany, Aug. 4, 2026. While in western Germany much AfD support stems from opposition to immigration, experts say that in eastern Germany, the issue matters less. More significant is the states’ shared East German legacy of shrinking populations, shortages of skilled labor, and higher unemployment and lower incomes than in western Germany.
By almost every economic measure, the East still significantly lags behind the West. Dr. Böick notes that the population of his hometown in Saxony-Anhalt has halved since reunification. The state is now the oldest in the country by average age, with its youth heading off to major cities or the West.
“Voting for right-wing populists is a very rational thing to do in the rural areas of the East,” says Dr. Böick. “It is a cry for support.”
“They are unhappy with their fate,” adds Markus Ziener, an analyst in Berlin for the German Marshall Fund of the United States. “They feel the West Germans are in control of everything.”
Furthermore, they did not grow up on a steady diet of remembrance culture and European integration. In many ways, the rise of the AfD points to a clash of different visions of German identity and nationalism between the former East and West.
In the West, there was a prevailing sentiment that as long as we rebuilt their cities and provided financial support, they would be happy and vote for middle-of-the-road parties, Dr. Ziener notes. “There was so much beneath that superficial prosperity that we misjudged.”
For Ronald Gläser, the situation in Saxony-Anhalt is merely the beginning. The AfD member of parliament from Berlin sees the scales tipping—and ironically, the political firewall is helping his party.
“The firewall made us the only real opposition in Germany,” he says. “Anyone who is upset turns to us.”
The central question remains whether the party poses a genuine threat to German democracy. Mr. Gläser rejects the charges against his party as an attempt to unfairly control the political discourse. “The AfD is just a party like all the others—more libertarian and more conservative, but not fascist,” he asserts.
Nazism is a thing of the past, he adds. “It was a bad part of our history, but there is no neo-Nazi element in our country—at least not in any significant way.”
Within modern Germany’s remembrance culture, such words are shocking, even alarming. For Mr. Gläser, that is precisely the point—to shift the conversation. For others, the AfD’s willingness to downplay the past, combined with tough anti-immigrant rhetoric that some view as racist, stokes the deep fear that has defined modern Germany: that the nation might repeat its dark history.
“The question has a lot to do with our history—that we face what happened in World War II,” says Dr. Ziener of the German Marshall Fund. “If you start questioning this, are you abandoning the core principle of who we are?”