Just where did Pegida come from? Germany, as is often quoted, is now the world's second most popular destination for immigrants, and Germans have long been praised for their open-mindedness. Had this come to an end? If so, why? Is it a bout of German angst—in this case a return of the vague fear of being overwhelmed by immigrants that the country experienced in the mid-1990s, or, worse, a return to the sinister times of the early 1930s? Is it a right-wing movement putting its finger on hitherto neglected issues or just an eruption of prejudiced idiocy from a bunch of frustrated East Germans?
Commentators were at a loss to explain it, although I should add that Pegida claimed that a cartel of politicians and media figures is misleading the public over the true state of the country.
This is precisely the unique feature—and danger—of Pegida: it seemed to thrive on some wavering, dark discontent far more sinister than the loud extremist messages that were screamed at its weekly gatherings. Opinion polls show this ambivalent stance: a survey conducted last December by the magazine Der Spiegel showed that 65 per cent of respondents felt that the government did not respond adequately to their concerns about asylum policy and immigration, while 34 per cent observed an increasing Islamisation of Germany. But a different survey suggested that 67 per cent considered the danger of Islamisation exaggerated.
Germany, it seems, just hasn't found a way to digest the idea of immigration. It seems unlikely that Dresden's famous opera house and castle will soon be "Islamised"; the fear is an entirely irrational one—and one that feels a bit complacent, too. The country thrived on its giddy, post-unity and happily nationalistic self for too long; now it is time to adopt a stance towards immigration that even Pegida supporters can understand.
History shows how a twisted ideology can quickly turn into a political force. Even if this seems unlikely to happen in today's Germany, the anniversary of the bombings of Dresden highlights that it did once—and not that long ago.
Commentators were at a loss to explain it, although I should add that Pegida claimed that a cartel of politicians and media figures is misleading the public over the true state of the country.
This is precisely the unique feature—and danger—of Pegida: it seemed to thrive on some wavering, dark discontent far more sinister than the loud extremist messages that were screamed at its weekly gatherings. Opinion polls show this ambivalent stance: a survey conducted last December by the magazine Der Spiegel showed that 65 per cent of respondents felt that the government did not respond adequately to their concerns about asylum policy and immigration, while 34 per cent observed an increasing Islamisation of Germany. But a different survey suggested that 67 per cent considered the danger of Islamisation exaggerated.
Germany, it seems, just hasn't found a way to digest the idea of immigration. It seems unlikely that Dresden's famous opera house and castle will soon be "Islamised"; the fear is an entirely irrational one—and one that feels a bit complacent, too. The country thrived on its giddy, post-unity and happily nationalistic self for too long; now it is time to adopt a stance towards immigration that even Pegida supporters can understand.
History shows how a twisted ideology can quickly turn into a political force. Even if this seems unlikely to happen in today's Germany, the anniversary of the bombings of Dresden highlights that it did once—and not that long ago.
Like this article? Share, save or print using the icons below:
