From Green idealist to AfD voter: “This feels like shooting yourself in the foot”

When Arne S. talks about politics, he doesn't do it casually. There are no empty phrases or barroom ranting, but rather a man struggling to maintain composure. Someone who chooses his words carefully, who repeatedly falters because he knows how wrong it all sounds. Wrong and right at the same time.

The father, born in the GDR and now living in Dresden, takes a breath. He begins to speak out, saying something he considered unthinkable just a few years ago: "For 30 years I voted for the Greens, now I'm voting for the AfD." He doesn't struggle for words, because he's given it a lot of thought. His decision wasn't easy. "This feels like shooting myself in the foot," he says, "but there's no other option."

He stands by his opinion, explaining to anyone who gives him the opportunity why he sees no other solution, what frustrates him, and why, as he sees it, democracy is seemingly crumbling before his eyes. Arne S. spoke with the Berliner Zeitung for over an hour, recounting his inner conflicts and his desire for political change. He is not an isolated case, but rather a prime example of a political pain that runs deeper than many debates suggest.

The inner struggle has turned into a silent protest

Arne S., a social worker, father, cycling enthusiast, and until recently a staunch Green Party voter, lives in the Saxon state capital, where the AfD emerged as the strongest party in the last European elections. But those days are over. "For me, the Greens have always represented ideals that I find very commendable: social justice, ecological awareness, and peace policy," explains S.

The emphasis is on "actually," because in his opinion, the Greens have undergone a drastic change of course in recent years. "What has become of the Greens?" asks S., and answers his own question: "They tell us what kind of car we should drive, what kind of heating we should use, and as soon as I criticize it in any way, I'm right-wing."

The ideal of peace policy was particularly important to him: no weapons in crisis regions, diplomacy instead of threats. But he sees this very ideal being betrayed today. "Since the Ukraine war, all I've heard from Baerbock or Hofreiter is: weapons, weapons, weapons," he says. "How can a party that once championed pacifism become the loudest advocate of arms?"

His words aren't an expression of inner anger, but of deep sadness. It's as if someone has pulled the rug out from under his political convictions. For months, and still today, S. has been wrestling with his voting decision. He knows that the AfD contradicts his values on many points: "I'll never get a speed limit, a ban on firecrackers, or better cycling with the AfD."

But for him, the desire to send a clear message now prevails. Against what he perceives as political hypocrisy. Against what he calls "the gap between aspiration and reality." "At some point, I said: Either I won't vote at all, or I'll vote for the AfD so that something finally changes." Voting for the AfD, he says, is "in any case a form of protest and a desperate attempt to change something." Or at least to initiate a process of change.

“This isn’t arguing anymore, it’s slapstick.”

He's not particularly impressed that the AfD has been classified as confirmed right-wing extremist by the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution. "The Office for the Protection of the Constitution is subordinate to politics, or rather, the government," he adds. He considers the Office's report largely lacking in substance, "soft as butter," as he calls it, and in many parts covered by freedom of expression. He sees it more as an example of political instrumentalization: "That means, to me, this is an attempt to intimidate political opponents, nothing more."

What particularly annoys him is that, in his perception, the debate with the AfD is no longer about substance, but only about its existence. "If the AfD says we need an immigration law with clear rules, then that's immediately wrong because it's coming from the AfD." A democracy can't function like that, says S.: "That's no longer arguing, that's slapstick."

He considers the CDU's "firewall" a political diversionary tactic. "It's being used like a weapon against anyone who disagrees. And no one notices that people outside are long gone." Arne S. believes that if this doesn't change, the AfD will continue to gain ground, reaching 30 or even 35 percent. Not because people are all radical, but because they no longer know what to do with their frustration. And he not only criticizes the Greens, but is also skeptical of the CDU's supposed shift on migration: "They're acting critical of migration now, but only because of the polls. I don't believe a word they say."

The feeling of no longer being heard runs like a thread through his stories. Arne S. talks about pensioners in his neighborhood who, at 78, still live in unrenovated old buildings and are afraid of new heating regulations. He talks about his Ukrainian colleague, who came to Germany three years ago as a war refugee with her two children and is surprised by the amount of the citizen's allowance, while she herself works hard and barely makes ends meet.

What drew him to the AfD wasn't approval, but rejection. The rejection of a political culture that he perceives as one-sided and moralizing. It's no longer possible to talk about migration, bureaucracy, or the citizen's income without immediately being labeled a misanthrope. "For a long time, the Greens were the banner of democracy for me—ecological, correct, and so on," says S., adding: "Now, to me, they've become nothing more than radical left-wing fascists."

An AfD ban “would be pure GDR”

Despite everything, he still has a shred of hope. That the political pendulum will return to the center, as he defines it. That one can once again debate about migration, climate protection, or social policy without being immediately considered an extremist. And that there will once again be parties that listen instead of lecturing. "I imagine it like a pendulum," he says. "It swung too far to the left, and now it's swinging to the right. I just hope we can slow it down in time, before it's too late."

He comes across as someone who feels politically homeless yet acts nonetheless. Out of a feeling of powerlessness. Out of a desire for correction. Out of protest. At the end of the conversation, the cycling enthusiast, who wants a speed limit and diplomatic negotiations with Russia, says: "If the AfD is banned, I'll leave the country. Then we'll no longer live in a democracy—that would be pure GDR."