The far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) stands at a crossroads. On one hand, its poll numbers remain sky-high, and its electoral breakthroughs are impossible to dismiss. On the other, its candidates fared disastrously in the second round of mayoral elections in major North Rhine-Westphalia cities this year. Compounding matters is the enduring «firewall”—the pact among Germany’s mainstream Bundestag parties to shun any cooperation with the AfD. In this precarious bind, the party is scrambling to forge a fresh political identity. Central to that effort is its stance on Russia.
A Growth Stalemate
Even AfD’s staunchest detractors—and they constitute a statistical majority in Germany—must concede the obvious: the party has emerged as the country’s most potent political force since reunification in 1990. Born as a Euroskeptic outfit railing against bailouts for southern European economies amid the financial crisis, the AfD nearly stormed into the Bundestag just seven months after its founding congress, falling short of the 5% threshold by a razor-thin 0.3% in 2013. By 2017, rebranded with an ultra-right ideology, it became the first far-right party in postwar German history to enter the national parliament, clinching third place.
In the 2024 European Parliament elections, two state votes that year, and the snap Bundestag elections in 2025, the AfD secured second place across the board. Last year, it triumphed in Thuringia and topped municipal polls in Brandenburg. All told, the party now boasts 420 lawmakers across European, federal, and state legislatures, with over 500 local council seats. Recent national surveys show it either leading or trailing the CDU/CSU governing bloc by a slim margin, varying by pollster and timing. In all five eastern German states, the AfD commands a commanding lead above 30%, with double-digit gaps over rivals like the CDU and SPD. Over the past three years, membership has ballooned 2.5-fold, from 28,000 in 2022 to 60,000 in 2025.
At first glance, the AfD seems an entrenched fixture in Germany’s political ecosystem, its dominance on the right-of-conservative spectrum unassailable. Yet storm clouds loom. Voters grow weary of the party’s role as perpetual opposition; the road to power bristles with obstacles.
First, in May 2025, authorities classified the AfD as «definitively right-wing extremist.» Law enforcement cited elements in its platform and leaders’ rhetoric that clash with «core democratic values and freedoms.» This imposes no immediate curbs on operations and hasn’t dented its ratings, but it could erode public perception. It accelerates a trend from recent years, when the party hovered under suspicion of extremism. Berlin entrepreneur Christian Krachwinkel, who once donated six figures to the AfD, now deems it a «grave mistake,» citing the party’s surge in «anti-democratic and unconstitutional» behavior as reason to withhold further support.
Second, the AfD has failed to breach the firewall—the mainstream parties’ vow of non-cooperation—leaving it politically quarantined. Even in eastern Germany, where it has notched big wins, rivals have cobbled together coalitions excluding the ultra-right. Saxony, for instance, installed a minority government to bar AfD influence. Adversaries still steer clear of joint initiatives or any collaboration with extremists. Journalists have spotted isolated municipal-level overtures between far-right and conservative actors; some CDU grassroots branches have called for rethinking the firewall and opening dialogue. Yet Chancellor Friedrich Merz remains steadfast. Not only does he excoriate the ultra-right, but he has unveiled a fresh anti-extremism doctrine. His stance enjoys broad backing: a September 2025 poll found 63% of Germans endorsing his distance from the AfD, rising to 74% among CDU/CSU voters.
Third, the AfD grapples with fierce pushback from Germany’s civil society, which mobilizes against right-wing extremism. In January 2024, nearly 1.5 million people marched against the ultra-right. The party struggles to secure venues for events, public or private. From the tiny town of Nordhastedt to Berlin, landlords refuse to rent to the AfD, forcing cancellations of party congresses. Even leasing a central Berlin office has proven thorny. Public rallies face blockades from opponents, while online guides proliferate on thwarting far-right gatherings. Protests have compelled the AfD to scrap routine party meetings.
Its bids to infiltrate power via local government have yielded mixed results at best. Far-right mayors have been elected in at least 10 eastern German locales, but aside from Pirna—a Saxon town of 40,000—these are modest villages with volunteer mayors. September’s Brandenburg results were promising, with AfD candidates advancing to second-round mayoral runoffs well ahead of rivals. Still, being pegged as «the party of eastern Germany» won’t suffice. In the west, fortunes sour: In Ruhr heavyweights like Gelsenkirchen, Duisburg, and Hagen—where an AfD upset would have been seismic—its hopefuls lost by up to 50 points.
AfD strategists grasp that burnishing the party’s image is essential to someday coaxing mainstream forces into coalition talks. Where its core platform—like anti-immigrant bombast—leaves no room for compromise, other issues offer wiggle room. And its pro-Russia posture could serve as prime bargaining currency.
The Pro-Russia «Alternative for Germany»
The AfD has championed cozy ties with Russia since pivoting from Euroskepticism to far-right fervor. Both lambast the liberal blueprint of a globalized world, multiculturalism, minority rights in politics and society, and the broader European integration project. AfD brass and Moscow alike peddle anti-Americanism and extol «strongman» rule to impose order sans «outmoded, futile democratic rituals.» Their views converge sharply on «traditional family» values and feminism’s dismissal. The AfD’s core manifesto (Section 7.3) declares: «We reject gender ideology and early sexualization. We fight to preserve traditional male and female roles.» Such phrasing could slip seamlessly from the lips of any senior Russian official, Vladimir Putin included.
With its emphasis on industrial economics and scorn for the «green transition,» the AfD eyes Russia as a font of affordable energy for Germany. In every recent Bundestag election, it has pushed to scrap sanctions and revive unfettered trade.
Moscow, meanwhile, has granted the AfD entrée to its media arsenal, including RT platforms. This lets the party reach audiences skeptical of German mainstream outlets but receptive to Russian spin as «alternative viewpoints.» On Russian airwaves and online, AfD figures unleash rhetoric too incendiary for domestic media, burnishing their «unyielding» appeal to recruits.
The AfD has actively woven a pro-Russia web in Germany. Its leaders have touted «friendship with Russia» in Bundestag speeches, told RIA Novosti in 2022 that «Europe’s peace and prosperity are inconceivable without Russia,» and made repeated Moscow pilgrimages. At least nine AfD MPs posed as «international observers» at sham elections on Ukraine’s occupied territories. Party reps are fixtures on Russian talk shows and lobbying gigs in Germany; some even penned columns for Russian papers. High-profile cases, like Bavarian AfD chief Petr Bystron and 2024 European list leader Maximilian Krah, triggered probes into corruption and Russia links. The Bundestag first stripped their immunity, then their seats.
Winds of Change?
Dissent against the pro-Russia line has long simmered within the AfD. Jörg Meuthen, co-chair from 2015 to 2022 and a European Parliament MP, was a vocal skeptic of cozying up to Moscow. He opposed inducting Russia-tied staff into the party’s EU bloc and, in a 2021 Deutschlandfunk interview, urged viewing Russia as a «partner» without «unconditional endorsement of Putin’s policies.» After losing internal battles and quitting, he cited the party’s «unbridled loyalty to Russia» as a key exit reason (ZDF heute, January 28, 2022). Another Russia foe was Joana Cotar, a Bundestag MP and Hesse branch co-chair. In November 2022, she bolted from the parliamentary group and party, blasting the AfD for crossing «too many red lines» on ties to «dictatorial and inhumane regimes» in Russia, China, and Iran.
As the AfD seeks a «respectable conservative» makeover to woo CDU right-wingers and their voters, its leadership might heed these exiles—Meuthen and Cotar. The «Russia vector» could be the «sacrifice» or «mainstream concession» it can afford. A September 2025 poll revealed 29% of AfD backers see Russia as a threat—below the national 50% average, but a hefty slice nonetheless. Plus, Moscow’s anti-Americanism now cramps the party’s style: The White House views the AfD with unexpected favor.
As the Bundestag’s largest opposition bloc, the AfD cuts a lonely figure in its pro-Russia, anti-Ukraine stance. Even Die Linke, once soft on Moscow, condemned the Ukraine invasion in 2022 and now backs sanctions plus non-military aid to Kyiv. Europe’s far-right luminaries in the European Parliament have likewise rebuked Moscow. France’s Marine Le Pen decried Russia’s aggression and Europe’s «collective naivety» toward Putin; National Rally head Jordan Bardella slammed Putin’s «expansionist ambitions» while endorsing arms to Ukraine. Dutch Freedom Party leader Geert Wilders branded the war «barbaric.» For a party already branded right-extremist and under surveillance, any Russia dalliance risks dire fallout.
Lately, glimmers of a Moscow thaw have surfaced—not least via personnel moves. Eugen (Evgeny) Schmidt, a vocal Kremlin acolyte with Russian citizenship, was denied a 2025 party-list slot and Bundestag berth. Robbie Schlund, a die-hard sanctions-foe who once pitched buying Russia’s COVID vaccine and opening a Moscow office, sat out parliament. Ditmar Friedhoff and Ulrich Oehme, 2018 «observers» at Crimea’s bogus vote, likewise missed out. Olga Petersen, an overt Putin booster, lost her Hamburg assembly seat. Kremlin partisan Matthias Mösdorf—MP and professor at Moscow’s Gnesin Academy of Music—shed his foreign policy working group chairmanship.
In September 2022, AfD leadership cracked down on MPs jetting to Russian events. Three state lawmakers had to cut short a Russia trip—aimed at occupied Donbas—and vow no repeats. Media reports suggest party orders yanked them home. Since then, AfD mandate-holders need top approval for such jaunts. By 2025, the executive escalated: Mösdorf, who hit the June St. Petersburg Economic Forum, drew a € 2,000 fine and six-week debate ban. Hamburg MP Robert Risch, who attended a September far-right Russian confab, was booted from the AfD group for «unsanctioned participation in a foreign anti-democratic conference.»
During the February 2025 snap campaign, leader Alice Weidel insisted, «We’re not Putin’s party.» In September, she sharply urged Russia to de-escalate with NATO and yield in Trump talks. This line garners at least partial caucus buy-in. Observers noted muted defenses of Bystron and Krah, with colleagues stressing the AfD «mustn’t let itself be manipulated as a tool of foreign powers.» Mösdorf, hit with charges of «damaging the group’s foreign policy line» and peddling «unfiltered Russian narratives,» found little sympathy.
It’s too soon to declare these AfD-Russia distancing signals a doctrinal overhaul. Kremlin and AfD affinities endure, and purges of pro-Russia figures feel selective. Markus Frohnmaier, the new foreign policy spokesperson, once echoed Moscow—from «congrats to Crimea’s people» during the annexation to visits on seized lands. Yet his recent calls for «rethinking Russia ties» and prioritizing «Germany and German-American relations» jar with his predecessor’s overt pro-Kremlin tilt.
Frohnmaier’s fresh vow to visit Moscow—slated for March 2026—drew unanimous flak from democrats, from coalition partners to foes, even sparking espionage jabs. On the surface, it smacks of AfD’s old pro-Russia bent. But nuances emerge: He announced it upfront, bucking the prior pattern of post-facto revelations. And his rationale—”keeping open channels with Russia”—mirrors arguments lately voiced by upstanding German democrats.
Frohnmaier’s elevation likely stems from internal math: He runs the party in «western» Baden-Württemberg, a key frontier for AfD gains. From the party’s hard-right wing (a relative term in an extremist outfit), he’s a Weidel confidant and was picked as state list leader this spring for polls five months out.
Skepticism lingers on whether the party’s course is truly shifting. Much hinges on whether its political engineers spy in this «new direction» a rung on the ladder to power.
