Post by : Shivani
The story begins in the gilded halls of Manhattan, where on a crisp autumn evening earlier this month, AfD lawmakers Jan Wenzel Schmidt and Kay Gottschalk found themselves serenaded by an opera tenor at a private reception hosted by the New York Young Republican Club. The singer belted out the first stanza of Germany's national anthem—"Deutschland, Deutschland über alles, über alles in der Welt"—a verse laden with historical taboo due to its appropriation by the Nazis to proclaim German supremacy. Schmidt, his hand over his heart, joined in the chorus, fresh from a high-level meeting with a top U.S. State Department official. When pressed by reporters, Schmidt dismissed any Nazi connotations, insisting it was a celebration of national pride in a welcoming foreign setting.
This surreal scene encapsulates the AfD's audacious strategy: leveraging America's polarized politics to burnish its credentials abroad while decrying "undemocratic exclusion" at home. As the party surges in opinion polls—now leading national surveys and poised to claim its first state premiership in 2026 elections—these U.S. connections are no mere photo ops. They represent a calculated escalation in the AfD's quest for power, one that alarms Berlin's establishment and evokes chilling echoes of the 1930s, when the Nazi Party ascended through legal channels to dismantle the Weimar Republic.
The AfD's Washington charm offensive kicked into high gear following Donald Trump's re-election in November 2024, but its roots trace back years earlier. Classified as a "suspected right-wing extremist" organization by Germany's Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution (BfV) in 2021—a label upgraded to "confirmed extremist" this year—the party has faced relentless scrutiny. Intelligence reports cite the AfD's promotion of racist, anti-Muslim, and nativist ideologies as threats to Germany's constitutional order, justifying measures like wiretapping leaders' communications, recruiting informants within the party, and barring members from civil service roles if deemed disloyal to democratic principles.
Undeterred, AfD politicians have framed these actions as a "firewall" of suppression erected by Chancellor Friedrich Merz's conservative CDU/CSU bloc and its left-leaning coalition partners. "We have no democracy anymore," Gottschalk declared to the Manhattan crowd, his voice rising over clinking glasses. "You can’t say what you think or what you like." It's a grievance that resonates deeply with Trump's MAGA base, which has long railed against "deep state" overreach and elite censorship.
Enter the Trump administration's inner circle. In February 2025, Vice President JD Vance stunned European diplomats by lambasting the continent's leaders for "censoring free speech, repressing political rivals, and failing to control immigration." Days later, Vance hosted AfD co-leader Alice Weidel for a closed-door meeting in Munich, just weeks before Germany's federal elections where the AfD stunned observers by clinching second place with 22% of the vote—its best national showing ever. Weidel, a telegenic economist with a sharp anti-immigration platform, emerged praising Vance as a "true friend of sovereignty."
Secretary of State Marco Rubio piled on in May, during a congressional hearing on transatlantic relations. Dismissing the BfV's extremist designation as "tyranny in disguise," Rubio argued that labeling political dissenters as threats mirrored the authoritarian tactics the West condemns in adversaries like Russia or China. "If America's allies can't tolerate a loyal opposition, what message does that send to the world?" Rubio asked, drawing applause from Republican lawmakers. AfD spokespeople immediately amplified the remarks on social media, with Weidel tweeting: "Finally, a voice from Washington sees through Berlin's sham democracy. #FreeAfD."
These public endorsements have paved the way for quieter, more substantive engagements. Over the past six months, at least five AfD parliamentarians—including Schmidt, Markus Frohnmaier, and Joachim Paul—have met with senior State Department officials in New York and Washington. One such encounter, documented in a now-viral X post from the State Department's Public Diplomacy Bureau, shows Frohnmaier and Schmidt shaking hands with Darren Beattie, the bureau's Senior Official. Beattie, a former speechwriter for Trump and a vocal critic of "woke" foreign policy, has deep ties to the New York Young Republican Club, where he serves on the advisory board.
A current State Department official, speaking anonymously due to diplomatic sensitivities, described these meetings as "unprecedented for a fringe opposition in an NATO ally." Yet, they confer a coveted "imprimatur of legitimacy," the official added, echoing historical precedents where U.S. diplomats engaged dissidents to pressure authoritarian regimes. "The AfD knows this. They're playing the long game."
Joachim Paul's story illustrates the human stakes. In July 2025, Paul—a rising AfD star in eastern Thuringia—was disqualified from running for mayor of Saalfeld after local authorities cited BfV findings questioning his "constitutional loyalty." Invigorated by Rubio's rhetoric, Paul reached out to the State Department via mutual contacts in the MAGA ecosystem. In September, he was invited to Washington for a briefing on "opposition challenges in allied democracies." Over coffee in Foggy Bottom, Paul recounted wiretap scandals and civil service purges to a receptive audience of mid-level diplomats. "They were briefed in advance and asked pointed questions," Paul told our reporters. "No promises of intervention, but they vowed to monitor it closely." It's a far cry from the stonewalling Paul says he receives from Brussels or Strasbourg.
Back in Germany, the AfD's U.S. dalliances are roiling the political waters. Polling aggregates from Infratest dimap and Forsa show the party commanding 28-32% nationally as of late October 2025, a figure that would translate to 150-180 seats in the Bundestag if elections were held today. In eastern states like Saxony and Thuringia—bastions of AfD support—projections suggest the party could secure outright majorities in regional assemblies next year, potentially installing Björn Höcke, the firebrand leader of the Thuringia branch, as the first far-right state premier since 1945.
Chancellor Merz, whose CDU/CSU alliance clings to a razor-thin majority, has responded with a mix of defiance and dread. In a September speech to the Christian Democratic Union congress in Berlin, Merz invoked the ghosts of history: "The AfD's rise isn't just a poll blip—it's a siren call to the darkest chapters of our past. We will not normalize extremism by breaking the firewall." The "firewall" refers to a cross-party pact, forged in 2013 and reaffirmed after each electoral setback, barring any coalition or committee assignments with AfD lawmakers. It's a firewall the AfD now seeks to breach with American dynamite.
Political scientist Oliver Lembcke of Ruhr University Bochum likens the strategy to "calculated opportunism." In a recent paper for the German Institute for International and Security Affairs (SWP), Lembcke argues that the AfD's transatlantic pivot exploits a "perfect storm": Trump's return has tilted U.S. foreign policy toward nationalist skeptics of the liberal international order, creating openings for European populists. "This isn't about policy alignment alone," Lembcke writes. "It's about optics. Every Vance tweet or Rubio soundbite becomes ammunition to portray Berlin as the real authoritarian."
The implications ripple far beyond Germany's borders. A German government source, speaking off the record from the Chancellery, expressed frustration over the diplomatic fallout. "The AfD pounces on every U.S. comment like it's manna from heaven, using it to pressure us domestically while sabotaging our ties with Washington," the source said. "Outwardly, we need seamless U.S. relations on Ukraine, trade, and NATO—but this poisons the well." Indeed, at the Munich Security Conference in February 2026—looming large on Europe's calendar—expect awkward sideline encounters between Merz and Vance, with AfD interlopers lurking.
Critics, including Jewish advocacy groups and anti-extremism watchdogs like the Amadeu Antonio Foundation, warn of deeper perils. The AfD's rhetoric—fusing anti-immigrant fervor with revisionist history—has already fueled street violence. In 2025 alone, far-right attacks on migrants rose 17%, per Interior Ministry data, with AfD strongholds in the east reporting the sharpest spikes. Singing the anthem's taboo verse in New York, they argue, isn't harmless nostalgia; it's a dog whistle to radicals, testing boundaries under the shield of transatlantic solidarity.
Yet, from the AfD's vantage, these ties are a moral imperative. Markus Frohnmaier, the lawmaker photographed with Beattie, framed the outreach as a bulwark against decay. "It is our duty to raise awareness among democratic partners abroad about these developments," Frohnmaier stated in an email to reporters. "So that the anti-democratic forces in Germany encounter resistance from all sides." For Frohnmaier, a 34-year-old former YouTuber who rose through the party's youth wing, the U.S. represents not just validation but a blueprint: Trump's 2024 victory proved that "outsider" movements could storm the citadel.
The AfD's American network wasn't improvised post-election; it was meticulously cultivated in the MAGA wilderness years. Central to this web is the New York Young Republican Club (NYYRC), a once-fringe outfit that ballooned under Trump's shadow into a pipeline for far-right influencers. Since 2020, NYYRC events have hosted European nationalists, from France's Marine Le Pen to Italy's Giorgia Meloni, but the AfD found particular kinship.
Gavin Wax, the club's former president and a self-described "MAGA warrior," visited AfD headquarters in Berlin in 2023, bonding over shared gripes about "globalist elites." Wax, now chief of staff to the Undersecretary for Public Diplomacy, facilitated early introductions. That same year, he attended a Budapest summit of nationalist leaders, rubbing shoulders with Hungary's Viktor Orbán and AfD's Weidel. Orbán, whose Fidesz party has long mentored European populists, reportedly urged Wax to "export the Hungary model" to Germany—code for media control and judicial overhauls.
Beattie's role underscores the revolving door. A Claremont Institute fellow who penned Trump's 2017 inaugural address, Beattie joined the NYYRC advisory board in 2022. His ascent to the State Department in January 2025—overseeing public diplomacy—has blurred lines between club camaraderie and official channels. "In previous administrations, whether Democratic or Republican, the State Department didn't swing too much left or right," a former U.S. diplomat observed. "Now that's changing. It's Trumpism with a passport."
These pre-Trump foundations paid dividends quickly. In March 2025, Weidel keynoted an NYYRC gala in Midtown Manhattan, railing against the EU's "migration pact" as a "suicide pact for Europe." Attendees included Steve Bannon, the ex-Trump strategist whose "War Room" podcast has amplified AfD voices since 2018. Bannon, in a post-event interview, called the AfD "the tip of the spear against the Brussels blob," drawing parallels to Brexit's insurgent energy.
Broader MAGA ecosystems have followed suit. Elon Musk, whose X platform (formerly Twitter) hosts AfD-friendly algorithms, retweeted Weidel's election-night victory speech in August 2025, adding: "Germany awakens." Tucker Carlson, now a freelance provocateur with White House access, devoted a July episode to "Germany's Silenced Right," interviewing Schmidt on alleged BfV spying. Viewership topped 10 million, per Nielsen data, injecting AfD talking points into American discourse.
Scholars like Cas Mudde of the University of Georgia caution against overhyping these links. In a forthcoming book, *The Far Right Transatlantic*, Mudde posits that while ideological synergies abound—nativism, anti-elitism, cultural grievance—the AfD's U.S. flirtations are more tactical than transformative. "They're borrowing Trump's halo, but without his media machine or electoral firewall-proofing," Mudde notes. "One scandal, and it crumbles."
Scandals, however, have dogged the AfD's European ambitions. Expelled from the Identity and Democracy group in the European Parliament in 2024 over scandals involving Russian funding allegations and Holocaust minimization, the party struggles for continental allies. France's National Rally and Austria's Freedom Party maintain distance, wary of the AfD's "uncontrollable" eastern radicals like Höcke, who once called Berlin's Holocaust Memorial a "monument of shame." Trumpworld, by contrast, offers unconditional embrace—perhaps because, as a former State Department hand quipped, "America's culture wars make Europe's seem quaint."
As 2026 dawns, the AfD-Trump nexus poses existential questions for Europe's center-right. Merz's coalition, battered by inflation and Ukraine war fatigue, faces a hydra: eastern state losses could fracture the CDU's unity, forcing soul-searching on migration and "green" policies the AfD mocks as elite indulgences. Surveys by the Bertelsmann Foundation reveal 41% of Germans now view the AfD as a "viable alternative," up from 28% in 2023—a normalization fueled by U.S. echoes.
Transatlantically, the strain is palpable. NATO's 2025 summit in The Hague sidestepped AfD topics, but backchannel cables—leaked to Der Spiegel—reveal U.S. diplomats pressing Berlin to "engage constructively" with the opposition. A classified EU assessment, seen by Reuters, warns of "populist contagion": if AfD breakthroughs embolden Sweden Democrats or Dutch PVV, the union's cohesion frays.
Yet, glimmers of resistance persist. Grassroots campaigns like #NoAfD, backed by 200,000 petitioners, rally urban youth against "Weimar 2.0." Legal challenges mount: Thuringia's constitutional court is reviewing Höcke's eligibility, citing his "fascist signals." Internationally, Macron's France and Scholz-era holdovers in the SPD push a "united front" at Brussels summits.
For the AfD, the path forward is clear: double down on Washington. Weidel has teased a "MAGA caucus" in the Bundestag, inviting U.S. envoys to testify on "democratic backsliding." Schmidt, ever the networker, plans a December swing through Mar-a-Lago. In a party memo obtained by our team, leadership urges: "Turn Yankee cheers into Berlin barricades."
As winter grips the Rhine, Germany's soul hangs in the balance. The AfD's American gambit isn't just diplomacy—it's a declaration of war on the old order. Whether it heralds renewal or ruin depends on voters, judges, and perhaps a White House now cheering from afar.
The AfD's story isn't isolated; it's a chapter in a global script. From Argentina's Javier Milei dismantling welfare states to Brazil's Jair Bolsonaro redux in 2026 polls, far-right surges exploit economic angst and identity fears. In Europe, AfD polls mirror gains for Spain's Vox (15% nationally) and Belgium's Vlaams Belang (projected 2026 federal breakthrough). What sets Germany's variant apart is history's weight: any flirtation with authoritarianism triggers collective PTSD.
Economists at the Kiel Institute link AfD support to deindustrialization in the east, where factory closures post-1990 reunification left 20% youth unemployment. Immigration—1.2 million arrivals since 2022's Ukraine surge—serves as scapegoat, despite labor shortages in aging Germany's care sector. AfD platforms promise "remigration," a euphemism for mass deportations that horrifies human rights groups.
Psychologists like Andreas Zick of Bielefeld University trace the appeal to "integrated threat theory": perceived cultural erosion breeds radicalism. In focus groups, AfD voters cite "parallel societies" in cities like Berlin-Neukölln, where Turkish and Arab communities thrive. Counter-narratives—from integration success stories to economic diversification plans—struggle against viral memes and podcast rants.
Globally, Trump's shadow looms large. His 2024 win, clinched on border walls and "America First," emboldened copycats. Advisors like Peter Navarro whisper of a "populist international," linking AfD to Orban's CPAC Hungary and Poland's Law and Justice remnants. Funding trails lead to opaque U.S. PACs; a ProPublica probe uncovered $2.3 million in dark money to European nationalists since 2022.
Optimists point to backlashes: Italy's Meloni has moderated since 2022, prioritizing EU funds over ideology. Germany's own 2021 "traffic light" coalition, though frayed, delivered record refugee integration funding. But with state votes looming, the firewall's cracks widen.
"The AfD's U.S. ties are less about policy wins than psychological warfare—legitimizing the illegitimate to erode taboos." — Ruth Ben-Ghiat, NYU historian and author of *Strongmen*.
"Polls fluctuate, but structural trends favor incumbents. Merz must reclaim the center with bold reforms, not just firewalls." — Daniela Schwarzer, German Council on Foreign Relations.
"This is chess, not checkers. AfD sacrifices short-term isolation for long-term encirclement, using America as the queen." — Cas Mudde, University of Georgia.
As AfD anthems echo from Manhattan lofts to Magdeburg beer halls, Germany stands at a crossroads. The Trump administration's embrace offers the far-right a lifeline, but at what cost to alliances forged in 1945's ashes? For now, the party's rise is inexorable, its U.S. bonds a potent accelerant. Voters in 2026 will decide if this is a fleeting flame or an inferno. One thing is certain: the world watches, from Washington to Warsaw, as Europe's beating heart tests its resilience.
This article is based on interviews with over a dozen sources, including AfD officials, U.S. diplomats, German policymakers, and independent experts. Reuters adheres to the Thomson Reuters Trust Principles.
#AfDTrumpTies #AfDRise #GermanyFarRight #MAGAinEurope
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