War in Ukraine, war in the Middle East: it is hardly surprising that many young people are worried. But when that worry is focused entirely on personal feelings and comfort, something has gone wrong.
On March 5th, thousands of students took to the streets in German cities in “school strikes against conscription”—a campaign modelled on Greta Thunberg’s climate strikes. In Berlin, around 3,000 people participated—some as young as ten.
Far from a brave and principled stand for peace and freedom, much of what emerged looked more like a therapy session. “We’re scared” and “we’re not up for conscription” (Kein Bock auf Wehrpflicht) were the slogans on banners.
A revealing interview on Germany’s public broadcaster underscored this. The journalist asked a 17-year-old protest spokesperson what a possible conscription “does to you psychologically.” “It’s really weighing on me, and I’m also a little afraid of World War III—not very far away, in my opinion. And that’s very stressful,” he replied.
But the real failure here is not the students’. It is the adult world’s. Public broadcasters felt no shame broadcasting these self-absorbed and infantile messages during prime-time news. And most commentators, including politicians, had nothing substantive to say in response. Nobody explained to the young protesters that “feeling afraid” is not a political position—let alone a courageous one—and that they might instead try to engage seriously with the complexities of war and peace, both historically and today. A rational, adult response was conspicuously absent.
This is not accidental. The protests are symptomatic of a wider mood of confusion, nihilism, and low expectation that permeates German society and its political class. Their immediate trigger is a new law, which came into effect this year, requiring every 18-year-old to complete a questionnaire about their potential suitability and willingness to serve in the armed forces. Filling it in is obligatory for young men (voluntary for young women), but it is not conscription: the government has repeatedly stressed that military service remains entirely voluntary.
This two-pronged approach—insisting on voluntarism while mandating registration—is itself a sign of governmental indecision. Many in the current coalition deeply oppose any form of military service and sound strikingly similar to the protesters. The approach also invites suspicion: even before the questionnaire has been widely enforced, the government has already quietly acknowledged that its hopes of filling the understaffed Bundeswehr through volunteers are unrealistic. Tens of thousands more applicants would be needed to meet its targets. The protesters, in other words, have reason to doubt the government’s ‘promises.’
The wider mood, of which the students are merely a symptom, is reflected in surveys. According to a Forsa poll from last year, only 16% of Germans said they would “definitely take up arms” to defend their country, while 22% said they would probably do so. A clear majority of 59% said they would “probably not” or definitely not be prepared to defend Germany militarily in the event of an attack. Among women, this figure rises to 72%.
This is hardly surprising in a country where the political debate has rarely advanced beyond a simplistic “war or no war” binary—when the debate should really be about whether there is anything worth defending—and why. This is a debate our government is clearly unable to lead.
Instead of defining the values that should shape our society and articulating a coherent defence strategy, the government has tried to appear ‘decisive’ through belligerent rhetoric. It began with the previous government’s full-throated Zeitenwende promise. Then the defence minister declared that Germany must “be ready for war by 2029,” while Chancellor Merz boasted of turning the Bundeswehr into the strongest conventional army in Europe.
To students and pacifist-minded citizens, this rhetoric sounds threateningly militaristic. In truth, it is more compensatory than substantive—a substitute for the persuasion and clarity that are lacking. The recognition that Germany’s security situation is inadequate may be sincere; the ability to build genuine public support for addressing it is not.
The reason lies deeper. Over decades, Germany’s political elites have systematically undermined the very values that might inspire citizens to feel a stake in their country’s defence. They promoted the comforting fiction that war in Europe was a thing of the past—that the EU would guarantee peace indefinitely. They cast the defence of borders as an outdated, vaguely sinister concern. They marginalised democratic nationhood—the sense of shared responsibility for a country and its future—in favour of technocratic governance and supranational structures. And they tarred even mild expressions of patriotism with the brush of the far right.
An elite steeped in this ideology had no difficulty abolishing conscription, weakening the army, and believing that trade and diplomatic engagement could appease even the most hostile regimes. Wandel durch Annäherung—change through rapprochement—would protect German interests, while actual wars would be fought in distant countries by professional armies. Much of this worldview now lies in ruins. But one thing has remained: the government’s fear of the public. That is why it cannot bring itself to make the case for compulsory service and why, despite all the tough talk, it continues to flinch from taking clear positions—on Taurus cruise missiles for Ukraine, on arms exports to Israel—wherever this might prove costly.
Unable to persuade, the government and its supporters have also resorted to discrediting critics. The AfD and other sceptics of arms deliveries to Ukraine have been routinely dismissed as Putin’s proxies and security risks.
None of this will help with Germany’s actual problems, nor will it challenge the mood of what might be called fake pacifism: the reflexive belief that all war is evil and must be avoided at any cost, that there is nothing worth fighting for or defending that could justify placing one’s own life at risk.
Watching young people protest in German cities while their contemporaries in Ukraine and Israel—who know exactly what they are fighting for—risk their lives for the survival of their countries and the safety of their fellow citizens points to a deep crisis in our midst.
One might recall Bertolt Brecht—himself a committed pacifist, shaped by the senseless carnage of the First World War, and author of some of the most powerful anti-war poetry in the German language. Yet, watching from exile as France collapsed in 1940, he was shattered. “France fell at the Maginot Line, that underground five-storey hotel,” he wrote in his diary. He pinned his hopes on England to fight—and it did.
We cannot know what Brecht would make of the war in Ukraine or of today’s empty German militarism. But the narcissism of the fake pacifists—the retreat into personal distress, the refusal of moral seriousness—would not have been to his taste.
War, Pacifism, and the Failure of German Political Leadership
A protester dressed as death holds a palcard depicting German Chancellor Friedrich Merz and reading “War is a good business, invest your children” during a protest against conscription on March 5, 2026 at Berlin’s Potsdamer Platz as part of a nationwide high school students’ movement against the “new military service.”
John MACDOUGALL / AFP
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War in Ukraine, war in the Middle East: it is hardly surprising that many young people are worried. But when that worry is focused entirely on personal feelings and comfort, something has gone wrong.
On March 5th, thousands of students took to the streets in German cities in “school strikes against conscription”—a campaign modelled on Greta Thunberg’s climate strikes. In Berlin, around 3,000 people participated—some as young as ten.
Far from a brave and principled stand for peace and freedom, much of what emerged looked more like a therapy session. “We’re scared” and “we’re not up for conscription” (Kein Bock auf Wehrpflicht) were the slogans on banners.
A revealing interview on Germany’s public broadcaster underscored this. The journalist asked a 17-year-old protest spokesperson what a possible conscription “does to you psychologically.” “It’s really weighing on me, and I’m also a little afraid of World War III—not very far away, in my opinion. And that’s very stressful,” he replied.
But the real failure here is not the students’. It is the adult world’s. Public broadcasters felt no shame broadcasting these self-absorbed and infantile messages during prime-time news. And most commentators, including politicians, had nothing substantive to say in response. Nobody explained to the young protesters that “feeling afraid” is not a political position—let alone a courageous one—and that they might instead try to engage seriously with the complexities of war and peace, both historically and today. A rational, adult response was conspicuously absent.
This is not accidental. The protests are symptomatic of a wider mood of confusion, nihilism, and low expectation that permeates German society and its political class. Their immediate trigger is a new law, which came into effect this year, requiring every 18-year-old to complete a questionnaire about their potential suitability and willingness to serve in the armed forces. Filling it in is obligatory for young men (voluntary for young women), but it is not conscription: the government has repeatedly stressed that military service remains entirely voluntary.
This two-pronged approach—insisting on voluntarism while mandating registration—is itself a sign of governmental indecision. Many in the current coalition deeply oppose any form of military service and sound strikingly similar to the protesters. The approach also invites suspicion: even before the questionnaire has been widely enforced, the government has already quietly acknowledged that its hopes of filling the understaffed Bundeswehr through volunteers are unrealistic. Tens of thousands more applicants would be needed to meet its targets. The protesters, in other words, have reason to doubt the government’s ‘promises.’
The wider mood, of which the students are merely a symptom, is reflected in surveys. According to a Forsa poll from last year, only 16% of Germans said they would “definitely take up arms” to defend their country, while 22% said they would probably do so. A clear majority of 59% said they would “probably not” or definitely not be prepared to defend Germany militarily in the event of an attack. Among women, this figure rises to 72%.
This is hardly surprising in a country where the political debate has rarely advanced beyond a simplistic “war or no war” binary—when the debate should really be about whether there is anything worth defending—and why. This is a debate our government is clearly unable to lead.
Instead of defining the values that should shape our society and articulating a coherent defence strategy, the government has tried to appear ‘decisive’ through belligerent rhetoric. It began with the previous government’s full-throated Zeitenwende promise. Then the defence minister declared that Germany must “be ready for war by 2029,” while Chancellor Merz boasted of turning the Bundeswehr into the strongest conventional army in Europe.
To students and pacifist-minded citizens, this rhetoric sounds threateningly militaristic. In truth, it is more compensatory than substantive—a substitute for the persuasion and clarity that are lacking. The recognition that Germany’s security situation is inadequate may be sincere; the ability to build genuine public support for addressing it is not.
The reason lies deeper. Over decades, Germany’s political elites have systematically undermined the very values that might inspire citizens to feel a stake in their country’s defence. They promoted the comforting fiction that war in Europe was a thing of the past—that the EU would guarantee peace indefinitely. They cast the defence of borders as an outdated, vaguely sinister concern. They marginalised democratic nationhood—the sense of shared responsibility for a country and its future—in favour of technocratic governance and supranational structures. And they tarred even mild expressions of patriotism with the brush of the far right.
An elite steeped in this ideology had no difficulty abolishing conscription, weakening the army, and believing that trade and diplomatic engagement could appease even the most hostile regimes. Wandel durch Annäherung—change through rapprochement—would protect German interests, while actual wars would be fought in distant countries by professional armies. Much of this worldview now lies in ruins. But one thing has remained: the government’s fear of the public. That is why it cannot bring itself to make the case for compulsory service and why, despite all the tough talk, it continues to flinch from taking clear positions—on Taurus cruise missiles for Ukraine, on arms exports to Israel—wherever this might prove costly.
Unable to persuade, the government and its supporters have also resorted to discrediting critics. The AfD and other sceptics of arms deliveries to Ukraine have been routinely dismissed as Putin’s proxies and security risks.
None of this will help with Germany’s actual problems, nor will it challenge the mood of what might be called fake pacifism: the reflexive belief that all war is evil and must be avoided at any cost, that there is nothing worth fighting for or defending that could justify placing one’s own life at risk.
Watching young people protest in German cities while their contemporaries in Ukraine and Israel—who know exactly what they are fighting for—risk their lives for the survival of their countries and the safety of their fellow citizens points to a deep crisis in our midst.
One might recall Bertolt Brecht—himself a committed pacifist, shaped by the senseless carnage of the First World War, and author of some of the most powerful anti-war poetry in the German language. Yet, watching from exile as France collapsed in 1940, he was shattered. “France fell at the Maginot Line, that underground five-storey hotel,” he wrote in his diary. He pinned his hopes on England to fight—and it did.
We cannot know what Brecht would make of the war in Ukraine or of today’s empty German militarism. But the narcissism of the fake pacifists—the retreat into personal distress, the refusal of moral seriousness—would not have been to his taste.
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