Let’s see what becomes of the AfD when it is brought face to face with the reality of government

Contrary to some claims, the Nazis have not won in Germany. They are organised in the parties Die Heimat (The Homeland) and Der III. Weg (The Third Way), not in the AfD, which is a right-wing party led by Alice Weidel, a lesbian woman.

The elections that all the newspapers are reporting on in dramatic terms took place in a federal state with just over 2 million inhabitants, whilst Germany as a whole has a population of 83 million. It is true that the extremely high turnout handed the AfD its most significant result in its regional history: 43.8 per cent, 39 seats out of 83 – three short of an absolute majority. The CDU managed only 17.2 per cent and failed to win a single direct constituency. The AfD won 38 out of 41. It is an unprecedented victory, but also a curious paradox: the party that has built a decisive part of its success on accusing others of being unable to govern may now have to explain how to actually govern. And it will not be easy.

The first hurdle is a matter of numbers. The AfD cannot govern alone, and so far the CDU, SPD, Greens and Die Linke have ruled out any collaboration. The BSW (far left), on the other hand, has left the door open. Candidate Thomas Schulze said he saw “common ground” with the AfD, particularly on Russia and low-cost energy, whilst emphasising significant differences on the economy and education. But what would that majority actually be called upon to do the morning after being sworn in? It could not decide either on Germany’s withdrawal from Brussels (the AfD’s flagship policy) or on a rapprochement with Vladimir Putin (a point of contact between the AfD and the BSW).

The new state government’s questions would not concern German geopolitics, but would remain within the state’s own borders: how do we recruit the teachers we are short of? And nurses in hospitals? How do we persuade a university professor to stay in Halle rather than move to Hamburg, Bremen or Munich? Nothing ideological, but devastating for political forces accustomed to turning almost every problem into a matter of national identity.

Let’s take education as an example. The AfD’s campaign promised a major overhaul of education policy: greater emphasis on national identity, changes to the curriculum, a scaling back of inclusion, more say for families and a much tougher line on integration policies. These are proposals that can be debated politically and, to some extent, pursued through the powers of the Land. But the fundamental question remains: with which teachers?

Eastern Germany has a demographic problem that cannot be solved with a slogan. For years, Saxony-Anhalt has trained fewer young people than it would subsequently need in the labour market. The consequence is evident in schools, hospitals, businesses and public offices. And here lies the AfD’s first contradiction. A policy that aims to drastically reduce immigration and make integration more difficult must simultaneously explain how it will find the people needed to ensure public services. Saxony-Anhalt is so well aware of this that the outgoing government had put in place specific programmes to attract foreign workers to the health and care sectors. Anyone who works in a hospital in Germany knows this: these decisions are not dictated by a multicultural ethos, but by simple maths. An ageing population creates greater demand for care, whilst at the same time producing fewer workers available to meet that demand.

One could, of course, argue that Germany should train more German nurses and doctors. This is a legitimate – and, indeed, necessary – position. But in the meantime, patients continue to arrive at hospitals. Shifts still need to be covered. And young Germans do not become nurses by ministerial decree: they simply choose better-paid and more attractive professions.

The same contradiction is evident in universities, perhaps even more clearly. Halle is a university town, home to Martin Luther University Halle-Wittenberg, numerous research institutes and the Leopoldina, the German National Academy of Sciences. The debate on academic autonomy is therefore no mere detail. In the months leading up to the vote, there was public debate in Halle itself about the vulnerability of universities in the face of political pressure and the AfD’s proposals on research: ranging from the abolition of certain fields deemed ideologically undesirable to political interference in university councils and appointment procedures. But German universities differ from their Italian counterparts: in Germany, there are no ‘competitive appointments’. A good professor can simply decide not to take up a post, or to move to another university. A research group can relocate its projects. Therefore, whilst it is true that a regional government may decide to reshape the university according to its own ideas, it is equally true that it will be by no means easy to persuade the best lecturers to stay, let alone to come and work there.

The same applies to the economy. The AfD has built part of its support base by criticising bureaucracy, industrial decline, energy costs and the effects of climate policies. These are real problems, but businesses in Saxony-Anhalt need workers just as much as they need energy at affordable prices. And, like it or not, they need foreign workers. The problem cannot be solved merely by stating that Germans who have emigrated should return. People return to places where they can find wages, services, schools, universities and career prospects. They do not return simply because an election campaign promises them that the state has become more German. German nurses working in Zurich are highly unlikely to return to Germany.

So what? The German right has thrived on the disconnect between the language of national politics and the everyday experience of ordinary people. It has argued that institutions do not work, that politics is out of touch with the people, and that the state no longer protects its citizens. Now, at least in Saxony-Anhalt, it has the opportunity to demonstrate what it would do in the place of others.

A perfect paradox: a coalition born in part out of opposition to the establishment could find itself forced to defend parts of the public sector that its own election rhetoric helped to delegitimise. Or it could fail. In any case, it would be a reality check that the other German parties should allow to happen, without chasing the prospect of a possible minority government. Because if the AfD failed to enter government in a state with a population of 2 million, it would effectively be justified in reiterating that everything that goes wrong is the fault of others. Thus influencing national politics. If, on the other hand, it did manage to govern, it would have to answer for schools that are failing, hospitals struggling to recruit staff, businesses unable to find skilled workers, universities losing researchers, and local authorities failing to process paperwork.

It is here that Saxony-Anhalt could become a national political testing ground: having to deal with decisions far less dramatic than a row over Brussels or a statement on Putin. And it is probably here, rather than in statements on Russia or in culture wars, that the AfD’s true test of governance begins. Let them give it a go. And fail.