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A report on a humanitarian trip in Pavlohrad and Sumy, Ukraine

Notes from a small group of activists from Dresden during a solidarity trip to Ukraine – Part One

Van driving down an empty highway. The road signs have been painted over.

At the end of October 2025, a small group of activists from Dresden—members of Anarchist Black Cross, malobeo, FAU and Queer Pride—set out on a solidarity trip to Ukraine. We packed a van full of materials collected in Dresden and hit the road, not just to deliver supplies, but to connect with people and collectives who, in their own ways, are resisting the Russian full-scale invasion. Our goal was also to learn and to listen to those living through the war, to exchange stories and experiences, and to weave stronger networks of solidarity.

On a weekend, we left Kyiv at 6 a.m. in a convoy to head to the humanitarian trip we planned to support. It is organized by Oksana from Solidarity Collectives. She is responsible for the humanitarian work of the organization. She is nearly permanently on the road, establishing contacts to grassroot initiatives in the regions near the frontline or evacuating animals from abandoned villages and towns. The perfectly renovated motorway stops after some hours of driving, roads get bumpier, smaller. We drive through villages and towns with high apartment blocks, pass Dnipro to come to Pavlohrad, a town of about 100,000 inhabitants, shaped by its omnipresent mining sector. The trip takes about nine hours.

We arrive at a small house with an outdoor toilet and a few people standing around the yard—displaced families, some fleeing war for the second time, many of them coming from Dobropillia or other mining towns in Donetsk region. Olha, the woman who is organizing humanitarian aid here in town, opens her yard and garage for organizing support.

We unload the cars—duvets, pillows, mini ovens, microwaves, kettles, pet food, toys, power banks, kitchen utensils, electric heaters—things we gathered in Dresden or bought in Kyiv. People from the area come to help, and soon a human chain forms; everyone is willing to take part. Afterward, people line up to collect what they need while Olha and others organize the distribution. She kneels on the ground, dividing dog and cat food from large sacks into the small bags people have brought with them.

Woman kneeling by large dog food bags, seen through the open door of a shed
A group of people wait at the door the shed for supplies.

Olha has been volunteering since 2014, originally supporting soldiers on the front line. After the beginning of the full-scale invasion, her work shifted towards the support of refugees. In Dobropillia, she had an office and worked together with different initiatives, among them Solidarity Collectives. But as the Russian army started to heavily hit the town with guided bombs in August 2025, she had to flee herself. She took refuge in Pavlohrad where her husband got offered a job at the local mine. They rented and renovated a small house on their own cost, as she emphasizes, even though their only source of income is the husband’s salary. Meanwhile, she tries to adapt to the changed conditions and continue her voluntary work.

Two people stand by a small table covered in snacks and refreshments.

It’s getting dark. In the garden, they’ve set a table with biscuits, fruits, tea, and coffee. We stand around chatting. Some speak Russian, others Ukrainian. A few words in English. Nodding. Many people here are organized with the Independent Miner’s Union of Ukraine. They tell us about how the work in the mines has changed due to the war, how they continue to fight for higher wages and better working conditions but also how they collect donations for union members fighting right now on the front line. One man, a local miner, helps displaced people to find work at the local mines. Another shows us a still from the film 20 Days in Mariupol, pointing at the building which is just hit by artillery: “That was my balcony,” he says quietly. He lost everything and doubts that he will get any kind of compensation, even if the war ends. He wears a headlamp, and we can see only the light and our shadows on the ground as we stand in the backyard, sipping tea.

Another man’s phone plays the sound of running water—it’s his notification tone for air alerts. He starts calling somebody, obviously getting nervous. In the distance, we hear Shahed drones. Someone says they sound like motorcycles from afar. Then comes a deep, booming bass from the air defense system. The drone is shot down.

We drive to Poltava, where we booked hotel rooms for the night, but halfway there, the Solidarity Collective’s car hits a deep pothole and destroys two tires. We spend hours searching for someone to carry the car to a garage which could get it fixed before next morning. After dozens of phone calls and asking around we are successful. Shortly before the curfew starts, we arrive at our hotel. 

In the morning, we continue to Sumy, a city of about 250,000, only thirty kilometers from the front line. We pass through areas which were occupied during the first months of the war. Road signs are sprayed over—to confuse the Russians, someone says. Billboards hang torn or replaced with army recruitment posters and food advertisement.

Van driving down an empty highway. The road signs have been painted over.

At a gas station several kilometers before Sumy, our Ukrainian friends remind us to keep two tourniquets each in case of bleeding. “If you see a Shahed drone, park under a tree,” one says. “And if you see us running—run too.” With a weird feeling in our bellies, we pass by destroyed bridges, newly-built trenches and checkpoints to finally reach Sumy.

We’re met by Anja, who helps us find a parking spot and leads us through a small alley. A woman in a stylish jacket passes by with two little warmly dressed dogs. We end up in a café, full of spider and spiderweb decorations and scary jack-o-lantern pumpkins. The time slows down. It’s her café, she took it over from people who decided to leave the city. She invites us in for a free coffee. Thirty kilometers from the front line, she offers plant-based milk and cream, and she serves us a Halloween-themed drink called a Spooky. In this café, they offer free coffee for soldiers. Visitors can donate the cost of a drink and leave a post-it note with a message to lift the soldiers’ spirits 

Woman stands behind the counter of a coffee shop

Anja pulls out her phone and shows us photos of herself and other women from Sumy at shooting practice. They receive training in tactical medical aid and how to use a gun from a former army officer. During the day, she also works as a doctor. She keeps herself busy and helps her community in every way she can.

We deliver the donations to a former student’s dormitory now housing elderly refugees from the east. In the common room, pink and white balloons scatter around the floor like a birthday party has just taken place there. People move slowly, some with walkers. Some invite us into their rooms to tell their stories. Most of the people come from small villages near the Russian border which got completely destroyed. Many have already lived in the dormitory for over a year.

We talk to an elderly couple, Volodymyr and Tamara, whose daughter was killed in a shelling attack. Tamara did heavy work all her live, working in a mine and loading and unloading freight trains, in order to provide a home for her children. But all of that is gone now. They say that they are already old and probably won’t live long enough to see the end of the war, and they only hope to not die under shelling or while hiding from bombing in a basement.

Svetlana tells us about how she made it out of Mariupol. After the beginning of the invasion, she had to spend one month in the city, in a hell on earth, as she puts it. There was permanent bombing and shelling, apart from one hour a day, maybe the lunchtime of the Russian soldiers. She saw how quarters which Russian soldiers previously directed them to for evacuation were bombed. In her flat, the doors and kitchen were destroyed by shelling. She and her mother-in-law survived by hiding near the elevator shaft. As she moved through the city to find a way out, she saw corpses lying behind partition walls which read to the front russkiy mir—the Russian world. “Yes,” she says, “that’s the Russian world, only blood, death, and corpses.” After making it to Berdyansk, an occupied city west of Mariupol, she finally got evacuated by the Red Cross. On the way the bus passed 34 checkpoints and one each of them all men were searched and got their telephones checked. Svetlana tells us how, during the time in Mariupol, her brain switched on some kind of protective mechanism. How she used to stare for days at the wall not moving. How she started crying for days just after being rescued and fell into a deep depression, unsure if she wants to continue to live or not.

In these stories, the horror of the war hits us hard, we find it hard to leave our new acquaintances behind, but we have to leave before it gets evening and another night of aerial attacks begins. While the sun settles in a red and dramatic sunset, we drive back to Kyiv.

These were long and short days at once, full of contradictions. Moments when people say, “Everything’s fine,” even as exhaustion shows on their faces, and moments when you sip a Halloween coffee latte while worrying about drones suddenly appearing over your head. Times when you feel intensively the proximity of war and times when you almost forget about it. Listening to the stories of displaced people, hearing about their murdered relatives and friends, and seeing the material consequences this war has caused, it’s hard to not feel enraged at how moralizing and judgmental some Western leftists can be. Our full solidarity goes to everyone living through this war and to the ones who continue to resist.

For their protection, we have changed people’s names. Part 2 of this article will be published on TheLeftBerlin.com soon.

Read also: Meeting anarchists at war – A fairly long report on our solidarity trip to Ukraine

“The question of whether we are allowed to state what we see”

An interview with Kien Nghi Ha about the pogrom in Rostock-Lichtenhagen, its preconditions and its aftermaths

and
20/02/2026

This article is the first piece in the series Neo-Nazis and Anti-Fascism in Germany since the 1990s. The rest of the series can be found here.

Kien Nghi Ha is a cultural studies and political scientist at the University of Tübingen whose work focuses on Asian-German Diaspora, postcolonial critique, racism and migration. He is also working as a curator and author of numerous books and articles. Most recently, he edited the volumes “Asiatische Deutsche Extended. Vietnamese Diaspora and Beyond” (Assoziation A, 2012/2021) and “Asiatische Präsenzen in der Kolonialmetropole Berlin” (Assoziation A, 2024). Right now, he is editing the volume „Anti-Asian Racism in Transatlantic Perspectives“ (transcript, 2026) and co-editing „Rassismus. Ein transdisziplinäres Kompendium“ (Springer VS, 2026) for the new book series „RACISM/SOCIETY. Transdisziplinäre Perspektiven“.

This interview was carried out in German and translated by the authors.

TLB: Let’s start with a hypothetical. You’re talking to an activist who has just arrived in Germany and knows little to nothing about what happened in Rostock-Lichtenhagen between August 22nd and 26th, 1992. Can you explain what took place?

Rostock-Lichtenhagen is a high-rise housing estate with high unemployment in the north of the city in East Germany, and known as a social hot spot. It was home to the central reception shelter for refugees. At the time, it mainly housed Roma refugees from Eastern Europe, and next to it was the Sonnenblumenhaus [sun flower house, an apartment block named for the sunflowers painted on the side], where former Vietnamese Vertragsarbeiter:innen [contract workers] lived. First, the central reception shelter was attacked by several hundred right-wing extremists in organized cadres from across Germany and abroad. They were supported by local activists and right-wing youths, with estimates ranging from 3,000 to 5,000 spectators who were celebrating these racist attacks. After two days, the central reception shelter was evacuated. Then, on the evening of August 24th, the Sonnenblumen house was lit on fire after the last police officers had withdrawn. The approximately 100 Vietnamese contract workers were able to escape to the neighboring house with a few German companions. They received very little help from their German neighbours. It’s a miracle that no one was killed in the Rostock-Lichtenhagen pogrom.

Rostock-Lichtenhagen is special because it is the largest pogrom since 1945, and was publicly celebrated in a festival-like atmosphere over several days. The police allowed this pogrom to take place, and it was broadcast live on television. This shook the very foundations of basic trust in German society and state. Namely that the German state, especially after the experiences of the Holocaust, has learned to protect fundamental human rights such as the basic right of physical safety for all people, not just for ethnic Germans. The trust in the German state and society, as well as the feeling of safety of Persons of Color was fundamentally shaken.

How did the media and politicians talk about migrants at the time, and how did that impact the pogrom?

Talking about the causes of this racist pogrom is a complex undertaking, but I will present the central points from my perspective. Preceding the pogrom in Rostock-Lichtenhagen was the so-called German reunification, which on the one hand greatly strengthened German nationalism, and on the other hand made many unrealistic promises that created high expectations. Chancellor Helmut Kohl said that German reunification would be accompanied by “flourishing landscapes in East Germany”. This promise failed miserably, because German reunification was accompanied by a severe economic and social crisis, with unemployment rising in both West and East Germany. In Rostock-Lichtenhagen [editors: which is in East Germany], figures from 1992 indicate 17% unemployment. The supposed national triumph had its shadow then, and the nationalists inside and outside of the parliaments began to search for so-called scapegoats. 

They found refugees and migrants, who were both referred to as Ausländer [foreigner]. The concept of migrants, the concept of immigrants or people with a Migrationshintergrund [migration background] didn’t exist in the 1990s. We were just called foreigners, meaning anyone who wasn’t White or Western European. There are pages and pages of really terrible cover stories, headlines and quotes which the political and media discourse repeated on a daily basis, which are documented for anyone who is interested. Some of the harmful examples include terms such as so-called “Überfremdung” [literally: over foreignization], “asylum fraud,” “social parasites,” and “fake asylum seekers”. These were all extremely negative, dehumanising terms strongly tied to ethnic and national stereotypes, especially for refugees who came from the Middle East as well as Roma people who have had to deal with this racism for centuries. 

This political campaign created an atmosphere in which the abolition of the constitutional right to political asylum was demanded throughout the country, and had a strong influence on the situation in Rostock-Lichtenhagen. The central reception shelter there was constructed for 300 people, but many more had arrived without capacity being expanded. As a result, the humanitarian situation deteriorated to an untenable level, and numerous reports said months in advance that this would lead to serious conflicts with the local population. These alarms were repeatedly ignored by local and state authorities. 

Accordingly, when the situation then escalated in August 1992, the media and political discourse had already prepared the racist sentiment, defining who was to blame. We must therefore look to the politicians and the media as actors who created a political situation in which racist violence on this scale became not only possible, but expectable. Many of those who were involved as racist perpetrators in Rostock-Lichtenhagen also said that they felt legitimized by these mainstream discourses and the reactions of the ‘normal’ White majority population. They felt like they were carrying out acts that were strongly welcomed and demanded by the German population and its political elite. It is therefore false to claim that this racist violence was limited to extremist fringe groups who came to Rostock-Lichtenhagen from outside. This violence came from the middle of the White German society and was also welcomed by many who stood by as spectators, witnesses, and supporters of the pogrom. 

TLB: Was there a response from an anti-racist or anti-fascist movement at that time, or some kind of solidarity? 

Well, Rostock-Lichtenhagen was part of a chain of events. There was a series of fatal racist violence leading up to Rostock-Lichtenhagen starting well before the German unification process began. For example, there was Hamburg in 1980, where two Vietnamese Boat People Nguyễn Ngọc Châu und Đỗ Anh Lân were murdered by organized Neo-Nazis. Or Duisburg 1984, where seven members of the Satır family, who immigrated from Turkey, were murdered in a fire, probably by right-wing extremists, which has not been properly investigated. Right before Rostock-Lichtenhagen, there was the Hoyerswerda pogrom in September 1991. So when the pogrom started in Rostock, there were some local anti-fascist groups that tried to show solidarity and supported the residents of the Sonnenblumenhaus and the refugee centre in their resistance against these attacks. A small group of antifascist activists were even inside the Sunflower house during the days of the pogrom. Astonishingly, although the police claimed that they were very short-staffed and did not have enough officers on site [to prevent the pogrom], they still took the time to arrest these anti-fascist activists, limiting the resistance against the pogrom. On the first weekend after the attacks just a few days later, there was a nationwide demonstration with several thousand people under the slogan “Stop the pogroms.” Then, what was not possible at the time of the pogrom suddenly became very possible, the police mobilized 3,000 officers from across the country to keep left-wingers out of Rostock and repress the anti-racist protest.

TLB: Many incidents of racist violence that you mentioned happened in the East of newly unified Germany, although not all. How does this division between East and West Germany play a role in these racist incidents?

While I don’t want to downplay the difference of everyday racism between East and West Germany, the sole focus on it can distract from other even more significant questions. Perhaps we can replace this question, because I think there is a different aspect that is quite central, namely the all German debate on abolishing the constitutional right of mostly racialized refugees from East Europe and the Global South to seek political asylum. This debate aimed to restrict the fundamental right to asylum and to undermine it through newly invented legal constructions such as “safe third countries”.

The struggle for the right to asylum plays a central role in understanding the pogrom in Rostock-Lichtenhagen. It is not credible to claim that all the unbelievably gross mistakes on behalf of the state and municipal authorities were just incompetence, misunderstandings, or bad luck. But it is right to say that the pogrom was made possible by the fact that many high-ranking police officers left for vacation that weekend, even though the local newspaper had reported that right-wing extremist citizens’ initiatives were mobilizing and had announced a big bang. These and other circumstances were produced by choice and could have been completely different, if the representatives of these state institutions had taken obvious decisions. Even the mayor sent letters to the state Interior Minister stating that conditions were so bad that a murderous conflict could not be ruled out. UN reports on the sanitary conditions at the refugee centre deemed them as catastrophic. Nevertheless, nothing was done. These fundamental questions require explanation, as they contradict every conceivable normal administrative procedure: Why, with eyes wide open, did they allow the situation to escalate further in what was already a dangerous situation? 

Looking at the whole situation in the political context, there were strong efforts, especially from the mainstream conservative parties (CDU and CSU), to restrict the right to asylum since the end of the 1970s. It was a central election campaign issue in the 1990s, seeking again to explain the miserable national unification to the disappointed voters in a bid to secure power. For example, in September 1991, the CDU launched a nationwide campaign in which all local party branches were asked to report asylum emergencies in order to give this issue frontpage media coverage. Then, in October 1992, just two months after the pogrom in Rostock-Lichtenhagen, Chancellor Helmut Kohl pointed to a state of emergency due to the unwelcomed arrival of refugees. For a long time, the oppositional SPD had resisted stripping the right to asylum, invoking the lessons of German’s Nazi history to protect the politically persecuted. But it is clear that the popularity of the pogrom in Rostock-Lichtenhagen within large segments of the German voters and the political pressure in the media coverage also caused the SPD’s political resistance [against the CDU’s project] to collapse.The SPD agreed in December 1992 to participate in this project in order to achieve the two-thirds majority necessary for constitutional changes.

So you see, both before and during the pogrom in Rostock-Lichtenhagen, this racist violence was instrumentalized to turn the problem around. In this discourse, racist violence was seen as the answer to the problem caused by a liberal asylum law. Not only was there a reversal of perpetrator and victim, but also a reversal of cause and effect. About two weeks after the deadly arson attack on the Aslan family in Mölln by rightwing activists, on December 6th 1992, a decision was made to conclude a so-called asylum compromise between the CDU and the SPD. There are theories that the anti-migrant and anti-refugee discourse, which provoked widespread racist violence, was meant to be a kind of calculated escalation to soften up the SPD so they would give up their opposition and finally agree to restrict the fundamental right to asylum.

This is one of the long-term effects of the Rostock-Lichtenhagen pogrom, the amendment of article 16 in German Basic Law. This means that the fundamental right to asylum for politically persecuted people is permanently restricted in Germany. Accordingly, this raises the question of whether it was a pogrom. A pogrom is characterized by a socially dominant group taking action against a racialized minority, while being supported or at least tolerated by the political institutions in the country. We can recognize all three of these elements in the Rostock-Lichtenhagen case.

This makes it insightful to look at why it took 30 years for the term “pogrom” to be used in official statements in this case. On the 30th anniversary, the city of Rostock referred to these events as a pogrom for the first time in a press release. Just one month before that, a study by the scientific service of the Bundestag had already cited Rostock-Lichtenhagen as an example of a pogrom. Interestingly, the term that is most accurate to understand this event, was avoided and marginalized in mainstream political and media discourses, who preferred terms like clashes, conflicts, riots or even protests. But the term “pogrom” eventually became more established and mainstream after a long struggle. I think the reasons for this have a lot to do with the exposure of the National Socialists Underground (NSU) terror scandal in 2011, and the Black Lives Matter movement in 2020. These made the issue of institutional racism a topic of discussion in the media, and people began to conceive of racism as an institutional problem. Accordingly, it became possible to view the pogrom in Rostock-Lichtenhagen as a problem of institutional racism.

TLB: In your work, you write about the pogrom as institutional racism, describing some aspects that you’ve already mentioned now in the context of the pogrom. Could you expand on that?

For me, it is particularly important to analyze Rostock-Lichtenhagen, not only to consider its background and the course of events as part of this institutional racism, but also to examine what happened after the pogrom. Namely, whether there is a process of coming to terms with the past or not. How do we deal with it in terms of memory politics, political justice and material as well as legal compensation? Who bears responsibility? And to be more specific: How did the police deal with their responsibility in retrospect? How did political institutions such as the state parliament of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern or the city of Rostock deal with their responsibility? How did the judiciary deal with it? How did academia deal with it? What kind of cultural processing took place and what kinds of memory political discourses or public events were established?

When you work through all these questions, you can see that there are huge gaps. It would go too far to explain these different areas in detail here, but I have done that in my analysis. In this case, we can see that the institutions that bear responsibilities are not fulfilling their working duties. One way of defining institutional racism or institutional discrimination is to say that if marginalized groups do not have access to the services they can expect from the institutions, such as adequate legal and political processing, then these institutions have simply failed and have discriminated against certain groups. And this failure is a structural pattern that we see again and again when it comes to dealing with racist attacks and discrimination. We see this not only in the case of Rostock-Lichtenhagen, but also the NSU or the racist murders in Hanau and other cases.

And that’s why it is important for me to put the image of Rostock-Lichtenhagen in a different context. Because Rostock-Lichtenhagen is defined by these very emotional and also terrible images of a violent mob cheering and throwing stones or molotov cocktails, and you think that’s just crazy Nazis celebrating a German folk festival. What you don’t see, however, are the institutions that made such images and events possible in the first place through what they did or decided not to do. Because otherwise, we slip into a convenient discourse that sees racism as a marginal problem of a marginal German underclass that has been left behind. Part of the discourse around Rostock-Lichtenhagen was this talk about the ‘losers of the German unification,’ who are uneducated and impoverished and who, as a result, cannot represent normal German society. That is how Rostock-Lichtenhagen is separated from the German normality. Also you don’t see that this pogrom was made possible by political elites, so-called think tanks and highly regarded media professionals. They also have a big responsibility we should not forget to examine.

TLB: There is now more scholarship and writing about this topic. But how was the memory of Rostock-Lichtenhagen fought for, and what exists of this memory today?

There have been major changes in recent years, mainly due to criticism of how the mainly White anti-racist movement organized the nationwide memorial demonstration on the 20th anniversary. I was not only the sole Vietnamese, but also the only speaker of Color in the 2012 commemoration. In comparison, the nationwide demonstration on the 30th anniversary in 2022 had much stronger participation from Asian-German communities and engaged a broad Coalition of Color. The commemorative rallies have become more pluralistic, with those affected more involved than in 2012. The 30th anniversary was also more present on social media, making it easier to access the topic for our communities outside of Rostock. 

In Rostock recently, there has also been more space and freedom for civil society to address structural racism. Further, the criticism of the public commemorations in Rostock led to the city finally establishing a decentralized institutional commemoration for the first time in 2017, on the 25th anniversary, by erecting memorials at various locations throughout the city, something which has been demanded for a very, very long time. 

I believe that there has been a certain opening up of this discourse of memory politics, although with a lot of shortcomings. To use an example, the city of Rostock, the jury, and the artist group who created this memorial in 2017 did not think of the basic need that the memorial should also acknowledge the victims of the pogrom. Therefore, an addition to the memorial was created one year later. Today, even this limited opening is currently in great danger, because we live in a political situation where not only the AfD and other right-wing forces are gaining ground, but the federal government is quite obviously targeting critical civil society organizations. And accordingly, the space for political maneuvering, including the space for a memory politics that is structurally critical of racism, could be reversed.

TLB: When you look back on the role of political and media discourse at the time of the pogrom and then you look at today’s political discourse and the media, what do you recognize, or what has changed?

Well, there is a major backlash that we are currently experiencing. This includes both Trump and his team in the White House, but also power relations in Germany itself. We are experiencing a culture war in both countries. The question of whether we are allowed to state what we see is not limited to Gaza and the wars in the Middle East. Likewise, after the media fueled anti-Asian stereotypes at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, there is reason to worry that anti-Asian and especially anti-Chinese stereotypes will rise massively in the coming years in the wake of geopolitical conflict and economic competition with China. I also think it is foreseeable that the colonial racism that seems to have been addressed in recent years through decolonization debates will be revitalized in a new form. I don’t expect that a large part of the Western media will resist this trend. In the mainstream media, self-criticism is usually only practiced or exercised after the damage has long been done and mild criticism is then risk-free or convenient. 

Accordingly, I actually see a lot of similarities with the political, cultural, and media conditions we experienced in the 1990s, when there was also a huge revival of nationalism and racism. In Germany today, very similar phenomena are obviously present. So it is very important to address the question of what the 90s could mean for the present, although that’s a rather sad conclusion. Ultimately the political events are very strongly dependent on the social balance of power, and if there is a resurgence of nationalistic, racist, and also militaristic logic in this social structure, then this will naturally also break out in the media and in politics. But affected people and smart progressives are not and will never be defenseless. There is always a solution right behind the corner!

TLB: Thank you. Is there anything else we haven’t covered that you would like to share with our readers?

I think if we understand Neo-Nazi violence as an extension or escalation of normal social conditions and not as its contradiction, it is interesting to discuss how this racist violence is embedded in colonial capitalist production and hierarchical relationships as a state of social normality. That would enable a new approach to the whole issue, which would be a completely different conversation. Nevertheless, I find it interesting to ask about precisely these connections and not to view racism as a topic that is disconnected from other socio-economic relationships and cultural contexts, but rather as something that is evidently very strongly linked to capitalist processes of exploitation and valorization. I think that colonial stereotypes can only be understood in this historical context, and if we want to understand racism, we have to look at it in this way. Then it becomes very clear that colonialism and capitalism have developed together and that these structures are very strongly correlated and overlap with each other. Accordingly, I think we definitely need to open up the analysis of racism in this direction and seek exchange there.

TLB: Thank you very much for taking the time to speak to us. 

Neo-Nazis and Anti-Fascism in Germany since the 1990s

An introductory series by The Left Berlin

Antifascism and anti-fascist journalism have deep-rooted histories in Germany. Over just the past few decades, there has been extensive knowledge and analysis concerning neo-Nazi movements and their history, yet only a small fraction of this work is translated out of German. Left-wing English-language groups often lack the wealth of understanding that is taken for granted by their German-speaking counterparts. Fundamental topics, such as the racist murder of 9 people in Hanau, which occurred exactly six years ago from the week this article is being published, are frequently known only in the most general terms.

This series of articles aims to help bridge the gap in knowledge or, at the very least, provide a basic introduction for English-speaking activists who may struggle to access German-language discourses for various reasons. In doing so, we also seek to offer greater insight into themes that are often misunderstood within the English-speaking left in Berlin, such as the dynamics between East and West Germany and the role of migrant-led anti-fascist organizing.

Engaging in this project, essentially translating several decades of activism and knowledge production into a short series of articles, inevitably means leaving out much important information. The list of stories which could have been included here is long enough to be an article itself. In selecting what to include, we purposefully highlighted specific stories — whether of specific events, people or groups — rather than attempting to summarize the extensive information on far-right violence or resistance against it. Our hope is that these focused stories will serve as an entry point for readers, helping them to navigate the broader historical context, and select for themselves what they would like to explore further.

As co-editors of this series, we have been lucky to have the support of various parts of The Left Berlin, including the editorial team and the social media team. Several members even contributed their own articles. We would like to thank them all. We would especially like to thank all the comrades who put their trust in us and agreed to be interviewed, sharing their knowledge and experiences.

Article 1: “The question of whether we are allowed to state what we see”: An interview with Kien Nghi Ha about the pogrom in Rostock-Lichtenhagen, its preconditions and its aftermaths

Article 2: “Nazis were on the move with baseball bats”: An interview with an antifascist from Brandenburg on the Baseballschlägerjahre and Nazi violence

Article 3: Protecting Fascists: Neo-Nazis in Germany’s military and police

Article 4: The far-right takes aim at CSDs

Article 5: Antifascism in Berlin: struggles, structures and repression, an interview with Antifa Nord Ost

Red Flag: Disgraceful cowardice at Berlinale (and a few brave artists)

In his weekly column, Nathaniel Flakin looks at filmmakers kowtowing to German imperialism.


18/02/2026

Berlinale Abdallah Alkhatib

Berlinale, Berlin’s international film festival, opened last week with a display of cowardice that will surely go down in history.

When the journalist Tilo Jung asked about the jury’s selective solidarity with people in Ukraine or Iran but not in Palestine, Ewa Puszczyńska declared: “Films are not political,” and wondered why no one is talking about the genocide in Senegal. (Is there a genocide in Senegal? Did she mean Sudan?) Wim Wenders added: “We are the opposite of politics.”

In response, Arundhati Roy pulled out of Berlinale with a bold statement. While Neil Patrick Harris said he avoids political roles, numerous other filmmakers used their platform to speak out against the German government’s support for genocide.

On Saturday, Berlinale director Trisha Tuttle issued a long, defensive statement reassuring us that no one at the festival is “indifferent to… the immense suffering of people in Gaza and the West Bank, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in Sudan, in Iran, in Ukraine, in Minneapolis, and in a terrifying number of places.”

In other words: Berlinale is political—they just don’t want to talk about Palestine.

Everyone sees what’s going on. Berlinale gets about a third of its funding from the German state. Far-right culture warrior Wolfram Weimer, who once made a career of decrying left-wing “cancel culture,” has been using his position as culture minister to cancel events that don’t align with the interests of German imperialism (besides lining his pockets).

We can all see the sword hanging over the jury’s head. Berlinale can be “political” as long as it doesn’t criticize the German government in any way. As the noose tightens around the neck of the largely state-funded cultural scene, we can expect fewer films criticizing the Far Right and more cinema praising the glorious Bundeswehr

So what did Berlinale have to offer?

Red Hangar

It did not feel like a coincidence that a film about the military coup in Chile on September 11, 1973, premiered in Germany. Red Hangar follows Jorge Silva, a taciturn officer in the Chilean Air Force, as the coup unfolds around him. When his superiors ask about his loyalty, he repeats that he only follows orders. Should he join them? Should he join a resistance cell planning to flee the country?

As the military academy where he works is converted into a provisional torture center, Silva is willing to carry out interrogations, but he draws a line at shooting prisoners. As we learn from a title card at the end, he was subsequently arrested, tortured, and forced into exile.

The film offered a perfect yet involuntary metaphor for what filmmakers are going through right now. Should they obediently cash checks from the German government as it provides weapons for mass murder? Or should they take risks and speak up?

After the screening, I got to put this question to director Juan Pablo Sallato. After dedicating years to make a film about moral courage, he decided to keep his head down with a Wenders-style deflection. This is a “violent world,” he affirmed, “in Palestine, in Ukraine, in the U.S.” The film, he said, was just posing questions, not providing answers.

But it’s actually quite easy to provide an answer about the 1973 coup: It was wrong. Aren’t the lessons for today equally obvious? Unlike Silva, Sallato would not have been tortured for saying “Free Palestine.” If the film didn’t strengthen his resolve, even at the risk of being criticized in the German press, then what was the movie for?

As I was asking the question, my microphone was turned off, and a handful of Germans behind me complained loudly about my “propaganda.” I might have turned around and yelled that they all would have supported the coup in Chile. But afterwards, five people came up to thank me. It’s not that hard.

Chronicles of the Siege

Despite all the censorship, following last year’s international scandals, a number of films related to Palestine did make it into the program. 

Palestinian director Abdallah Alkhatib presented Chronicles From the Siege. The blurb fails to mention Palestine, while The Berliner magazine refers to the director as being “from Yarmouk, a district of the Syrian capital Damascus,” without mentioning that Yarmouk is a Palestinian refugee camp. Yet at the premiere on Saturday, the room was full of keffiyehs and the director gave a powerful speech.

Five interwoven stories show people trying to survive in a besieged city that is not named but where people speak Palestinian Arabic. Alkhatib did experience a brutal siege during Syria’s civil war, so this isn’t quite about Gaza—but title cards refer to the  genocide that has been ongoing since 1948. Without a specific place, the story is universal. Alkhatib presents Palestinians not as perfect victims, nor as angelic heroes, but as people: The stories are full of debasement and despair, as one would expect, but also of humor and warmth.

A documentary, Who Killed Alex Odeh?, looked at the assassination of a Palestinian-American activist in the Los Angeles area in 1985. Law enforcement knew right away who had planted the bomb: three fascists from Meir Kahane’s Jewish Defense League. But two were allowed to leave for Israel, where they continue living to this day, easily found by a single reporter. One of them changed his name and became a lawyer, eventually mentoring the fascist Itamar Ben-Gvir. Odeh’s widow and daughter, still fighting for justice, were present at a moving screening.

This year’s Berlinale is part of a wider authoritarian turn to strangle Berlin’s cultural scene. The government wants to make the country “kriegstüchtig” (fit for military service), and this requires stamping out critical art. But on the margins, a few artists can still use Berlinale to present critical art—while the Palinale Film Festival (complete schedule) doesn’t have to deal with government censorship.

As a right-wing government attacks artistic freedom, some film makers will bend the knee in the hopes of preserving their funding—and others will have the courage to bite the hand that feeds them.

Red Flag is a weekly opinion column on Berlin politics that Nathaniel has been writing since 2020. After moving through different homes, it now appears at The Left Berlin.

19 February 2020: Hanau shootings

This week in working class history

On 19th February 2020, neo-Nazi Tobias Rathjen killed 9 people and wounded 7 more at the Arena bar and Midnight Shisha bar in Hanau. Both locations were known as meeting points for individuals with migrant backgrounds. The names of the deceased are Gökhan Gültekin, Sedat Gürbüz, Said Nesar Hashemi, Mercedes Kierpacz, Hamza Kurtović, Vili Viorel Păun, Fatih Saraçoğlu, Ferhat Unvar, and Kaloyan Velkov. Remember their names.

Before killing them, Rathjen had been watching videos of AfD Thüringen leader Björn Höcke. In an online document released prior to the massacre, he called for the “complete extermination” of many “races or cultures in our midst.” He suggested that the “total destruction” of entire states might be justified in a future war, listing 25 countries. In a video detailing his motivations, he referenced various QAnon conspiracy theories and expressed deep-seated hatred for foreigners, women, Muslims, and Jews.

After identifying Rathjen as the perpetrator, it took police five hours to respond to his nearby home. When they finally arrived, Rathjen first shot his mother before taking his own life. Police later claimed they did not hear any gunshots. Despite being known to law enforcement, Rathjen was allowed to renew his firearms license as recently as 2019. It was later revealed that 13 police officers working in Hanau that evening were suspended for participating in racist, far-right group chats.

Sadly, families of the deceased were not promptly notified; some learned of the deaths from news reports. Family members presenting identification had to wait 18 hours before they could see their slain loved ones, and autopsies were conducted without consent. Emergency calls made that night went unanswered. Initially, the media attributed the violence to “clan violence,” suggesting that the victims were somehow responsible for their own deaths. As Seda Artal later recalled, “I think the first headline I read was ‘Shisha murders.’”

The Hanau shootings sparked two powerful chants that have become popular at subsequent demonstrations: “Hanau war kein Einzelfall” (Hanau was not an isolated case) and “Where were you in Hanau?” (directed at the police). These phrases symbolize a pervasive narrative in the media and among law enforcement, portraying attacks by non-white individuals as the work of Islamists, while white terrorists are framed as troubled individuals. Since reunification, over 200 people in Germany have lost their lives to right-wing violence. We should remember them all.