Germany’s political parties have converged on an unusual point of agreement: A law penalizing citizens for insulting politicians needs to change, following controversial investigations of people who mocked Chancellor Friedrich Merz as “Pinocchio” and “Lying Fritz.”

But while politicians across the spectrum agree the law needs fixing — they just can’t agree how, or when, to change it, according to a POLITICO survey of the lawmakers responsible for the issue from each of the parties represented in the Bundestag. 

“We take seriously the criticism that, in practice, it may have created the impression of a special legal privilege for politicians,” said Susanne Hierl, a lawmaker from Merz’s center-right Christian Democratic Union (CDU). “Such preferential treatment was never the intention of the legislature.”

Moritz Oppelt, the CDU justice minister of Germany’s southwestern state of Baden-Württemberg echoed the sentiment, arguing the law should serve only its original intent of protecting local politicians, who are often subject to particular vitriol.

“Top politicians can and must be able to withstand tough criticism,” he said. “It is fundamental to our democracy, and part of our understanding of democracy in Germany, that people are free to discuss political decisions at the federal and state levels and criticize them very harshly. That does not mean that insults in the political sphere should become normalized. There are, of course, limits.”

Variations of this view find consensus across Germany’s fractured political spectrum. The far-left Left Party and far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) party want the law abolished outright, while the CDU, Greens and center-left Social Democratic Party (SPD) all support revising it. 

“Politicians like Friedrich Merz insult ordinary people in this country every day by calling them lazy or malingerers,” said Luke Hoss, a Left lawmaker, referring to the chancellor’s remarks that Germans should work more to boost economic growth. “The provision creates a special criminal offense that applies only to politicians and should be abolished.”

Tobias Peterka, an AfD lawmaker, said tough criticism comes with the job. “Anyone who voluntarily enters politics and exercises public authority must — as Germany’s Federal Constitutional Court has repeatedly emphasized — tolerate harsher criticism than private citizens, not less,” he argued.

While a version of the law giving special protection to politicians, Section 188 of the criminal code, has existed since 1951, former Chancellor Angela Merkel’s government in 2021 strengthened the legislation as part of broader efforts to combat right-wing extremism and hate speech.

The reform came after the 2019 murder of CDU lawmaker Walter Lübcke by a far-right extremist and amid verbal and physical attacks on local politicians amid the COVID-19 pandemic. Lübcke had been an outspoken supporter of Germany’s refugee policy under Merkel.

The law applies to insults made publicly or through social media posts when they are linked to the politician’s public role and are deemed to significantly impede their work. Offenders face up to three years in prison or a fine for insulting politicians; defamation and “malicious gossip” carry stronger penalties.

But opinion has turned against the law following several recent investigations and prosecutions of regular people for insulting politicians. One man was fined for calling Merz “Lügenfritz,” or “Lying Fritz,” another for calling him “Fotzenfritz” (“pussy-hound Fritz”), a defamatory nickname coined by a satirical magazine. “Fritz” is a common nickname for Friedrich.

Andy Hüttner, a 66-year-old retiree from southwestern Germany, was investigated for writing “Pinocchio is coming” on a local police Facebook post about security measures for a planned visit by Merz.

“I thought calling Mr. Merz ‘Pinocchio’ was absolutely fitting because he promised so much and delivered so little,” Hüttner told POLITICO. “It never crossed my mind that anything could happen because of that comment.”

After the news of the investigation kicked off a media furor — and condemnation from U.S. Undersecretary of State for Public Diplomacy Sarah Rogers — the case was dropped.

Under German law, insulting any person (Beleidigung) can be a criminal offense, but the law for politicians makes the potential punishment for insults and defamation more severe.

But there’s growing agreement that the law attempting to provide extra protections for politicians has gone too far.

CDU lawmaker Hierl said local politicians still need protection. “We will therefore carefully review both the wording of Section 188 and the way it is applied,” she said.

The opposition Greens agree that the law should focus on protecting local politicians.

“Repealing Section 188 of the German Criminal Code would send the wrong signal,” Lena Gumnior, one of the party’s lawmakers, wrote in a statement. “I could, however, envision reforming Section 188 so that it applies only to elected officeholders at the municipal level.”

SPD Justice Minister Stefanie Hubig said in June that politicians must be able to bear more criticism than regular citizens, broadly echoing the position of the Greens and CDU. In June, Germany’s state justice ministers called for the law to be narrowed so that it applies to municipal officeholders. 

For the moment, however, neither Merz’s governing CDU nor the opposition Greens are preparing a legislative push for after the summer recess. 

An AfD bill to abolish Section 188 was voted down by the Bundestag, and while the party has since introduced another bill, centrist parties have vowed not to work with the far right, maintaining a so-called “firewall” around the party.

The Left party has also introduced a parliamentary motion addressing Section 188, more evidence of the broad consensus around changing the law — even if mainstream politicians haven’t gotten around to it yet.

Wie konnte ein polizeibekannter Gefährder das islamistische Attentat in Berlin auf den CSD verüben? Rixa Fürsen analysiert mit Extremismus-Expertin Gülden Hennemann, warum es bei den Behörden womöglich zu Fehleinschätzungen kam. Hennemann ist Politikwissenschaftlerin und Orientalistin. Sie leitet die Zentrale Koordinierungsstelle für Maßnahmen gegen Extremismus im bayerischen Justizvollzug.

Hennemann warnt, dass eine bloße Distanzierung z.B vom IS mögliche Täter nicht gleich ungefährlich mache. Sie fordert einen lückenlosen Informationsaustausch zwischen Polizei und Gerichten, der nicht durch falschen Datenschutz blockiert werden dürfe.

Im „Beraterkreis Islamismusprävention und Islamismusbekämpfung“ des Bundesinnenministeriums kämpft Hennemann dafür, Radikalisierungsprozesse frühzeitig zu stoppen, ganz besonders an Schulen. Zudem müsse die Gesellschaft aufhören, Islamismus aus falscher Angst vor Stigmatisierung zu tabuisieren.

Das Berlin Playbook als Podcast gibt es jeden Morgen ab 5 Uhr. Gordon Repinski und das POLITICO-Team liefern Politik zum Hören – kompakt, international, hintergründig.

Für alle Hauptstadt-Profis: Der Berlin Playbook-Newsletter bietet jeden Morgen die wichtigsten Themen und Einordnungen. Jetzt kostenlos abonnieren.

Mehr von Host und POLITICO Executive Editor Gordon Repinski:
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The woman whose son brought terror to Berlin is sitting on a worn red leather couch in a three-room apartment in Berlin’s Tiergarten district. It is Thursday afternoon, and she is pointing to the several missed calls on her phone screen.

They are all from the evening of July 25. They are all from the same person: Abdul Ballout, her son.

“He was terribly afraid for me,” she says quietly, her voice trembling. “I didn’t know why.”

She scrolls through the call log — the last traces of her child from the day of the attack, the day the unknown 21-year-old became the most wanted man in Germany.

She wants the public to get to know him — the son, the brother, the young man that she knew. “I find the way people talk about him incredibly painful, to be honest,” she says. “He was a good person.”

These are the subjective recollections of a mother who cannot and will not accept what her son did — and whose account is difficult to reconcile with what authorities established about him both before and after the attack.

She asks that her name not be published, nor any photograph or recording of her voice.

“I have two other children I have to think about,” she says.

* * *

On the evening of July 25, Ballout drove a rented van into a crowd on the fringes of Berlin’s Christopher Street Day parade.

After coming to a stop, he got out of the car and, according to authorities, began attacking people with a machete before fleeing on foot. One person was killed, and at least 29 were injured.

Around 20 hours later, special forces tracked Ballout to a garden in suburban Spandau, where he allegedly attempted to attack officers with a knife when they tried to arrest him. Police opened fire, and Ballout was shot dead. Nine days later, he was buried at Gatow Cemetery in Berlin.

The person killed in Ballout’s attack was a 65-year-old woman from Poland who had traveled to Berlin with her daughter specifically for Christopher Street Day.

Not far away, a gay refugee from Iraq was celebrating at an electronic music event when panic spread through the streets. He had fled a country where being openly gay could put his life at risk. Germany was supposed to be different.

Granted anonymity to speak openly, he said: “For many people, freedom is something they never have to think about. For me, it means being able to love someone, to leave the house in the morning without wondering whether I could be attacked or killed for who I am.”

After the attack, he said, that feeling of safety cracked. “That old fear was suddenly back.”

Sitting across from me just weeks later, Ballout’s mother is dressed in all black, her headscarf framing a face that looks exhausted. There are deep shadows beneath her eyes. She speaks so quietly that at times I have to lean in to hear. The only other sound in the room is the monotonous hum of a fan.

On the coffee table lay empty coffee cups, an open packet of TUC crackers and a box of iron tablets. Propped between them is a framed photograph of Ballout, a faint grin on his face.

She doesn’t want to begin our conversation with the attack; she wants to start with her son. She reaches for her phone and starts showing me videos. In one, he is a little boy in swim trunks, running along a beach and laughing. In another, he is an adult, dancing exuberantly through the living room with his family. He jumps onto the couch and pulls his sisters along, making everyone laugh.

His mother talks of evenings spent together watching television or playing Monopoly, how he would sometimes cheat if he were about to lose. As she speaks, her smiles give way to tears, and her tears give way to smiles.

The contrast with the image of the terrorist could hardly be greater.

* * *

Four days before our interview, I visited the neighborhood where Ballout grew up. Children were crisscrossing a courtyard, neighbors leaning out of windows or standing outside doorways. I asked them about him.

All their answers were strikingly similar: “He always said hello;” “he was polite;” “he was helpful.”

No one disputed what Ballout did. No one tried to excuse it. And yet, no one could explain how the young man they knew was capable of such an act.

Sitting in his mother’s living room a few days later, her phone rings, and for a brief moment, Arabic singing fills the room. “That’s his voice,” she says. Her ringtone is a recording of her son reciting an Islamic prayer.

But is it just an innocuous recording?

Court records show Ballout repeatedly posted videos containing Islamic State propaganda dating back to 2024, before starting to circulate recordings of his own. In some of the audio files obtained by WELT, which is — like POLITICO — part of the Axel Springer Global Reporters network, he recited the Quran; in others, he appeared to preach. He had hundreds of followers on TikTok and Telegram, with comments praising his voice.

But Ballout’s online messages were radical, speaking of “unbelievers,” God’s “agonizing punishment,” and his rejection of democracy and the German legal system.

Online, he went by the name Abu Muawiyah — a reference to the first caliph of the Umayyad dynasty who emerged victorious over the Prophet Muhammad’s son-in-law Ali and his followers, from which Shiite Islam later emerged. It is also a signal of his shifting faith, as Ballout converted from Shiite to Sunni Islam in 2021.

Was this also a break with his family? His mother gives no indication it was.

She speaks calmly about religion, and without hesitation. She says she was born in Beirut and grew up in Germany. She can neither read nor write Arabic and has therefore never read the Quran in its original language.

“I’m not particularly strict about religion,” she says. But her son was different.

For the last several years, he had increasingly been trying to push her toward stricter observance, urging her to pray regularly, to take her religious obligations more seriously and to engage more deeply with Islam.

“He told me every single day how important it was to pray and that it was my duty.”

* * *

Speaking about the days leading up to the attack, one word keeps coming up in our conversation: fear.

Her son had changed, she says. He seemed more nervous, more tense, more restless. He had started changing his phone number constantly — at least five times in 10 days.

“Why are you changing your number again?” she had asked him. But his answer was always roughly the same. Some people kept calling him; he felt followed, harassed and no longer safe.

To this day, it makes no sense to his mother. But to investigators, this is the behavior of someone who had realized he was on their radar — and was planning something big.

In late May 2026, Germany’s Federal Criminal Police Office classified Ballout as a high-risk individual capable of committing a serious act of politically motivated violence. And the reasons for this are documented across dozens of pages of case files.

In 2021, Ballout took part in street dawah events organized by a Salafist group in Berlin, where Islamists seek new followers and often distribute copies of the Quran. This is where Berlin’s State Criminal Police Office first took an interest in him.

From 2023 onward, he increasingly frequented mosques influenced by Salafist ideology — which espouses an ultraconservative, fundamentalist view of Sunni Islam — while investigators noted he began openly expressing his rejection of Germany’s free democratic order.

In the summer of 2024, he repeatedly posted propaganda from the Islamic State organization, and in May 2025, attempted to join the terrorist group in Africa but was refused entry into Mauritania. Shortly after, he tried to travel to Syria via Lebanon to receive weapons training, communicating with IS members through Telegram.

Lebanese authorities arrested Ballout in July 2025, and a military court sentenced him to three months in prison for incitement to religious conflict. In court, he spoke of two cousins on his father’s side who had died fighting in Syria.

Returning to Germany in November 2025, Ballout was then arrested at Berlin airport and taken into custody on suspicion of preparing a serious act of violence endangering the state. According to the case files, he presented himself as a preacher in prison. His religious fervor intensified, and his appearance changed. Ballout’s father later told Der Spiegel that he had argued with his son over his long hair and beard, which he regarded as a sign of religious extremism.

Finally, in May of this year, Ballout was sentenced to one year and 10 months in prison but was initially released under the supervision of a probation officer while the court deferred its verdict on whether to suspend the sentence. This judicial decision is now at the center of a heated debate in Germany over how the country handles high-risk Islamist offenders.

From then on, police kept him under surveillance.

Did his mother know any of this? She shakes her head.

* * *

There is only one incident Ballout’s mother is willing to discuss: July 2 this year, his birthday. That day, she says, showed just how closely her son was being monitored.

Ballout had been playing outside with his sister, spraying her with a water gun, she says. Shortly afterward, officers from the State Criminal Police Office appeared. They had assessed the situation as a possible threat.

But investigators describe the scene differently.

It was already dark, and Ballout had stepped outside for just a few seconds, holding what appeared to be a handgun but was difficult to identify, they said. He tucked it into his waistband and went back inside. When officers eventually searched the apartment, they found only a toy gun.

Investigators believe the 21-year-old was testing whether he was under surveillance — and how much time he had before police would intervene.

And while his mother insists she noticed nothing that would suggest Ballout was preparing an attack, she does not rule out the possibility that others knew of her son’s plans. However, she gives no names.

He spent most of his time with family, she says. He had few friends, at least no one she knew particularly well.

* * *

The day of the attack began, in her memory, just like any other. Both mother and son slept in late, then ran errands. Ballout was unemployed and had no particular obligations, she says. In the late afternoon, he left the apartment before a family gathering that evening.

Then, suddenly, the calls started piling up.

At 5:10 p.m., Ballout called his mother. An hour later, he called again. Then again. Each time, she says, the conversation revolved around the same question: “Are you okay?” He had never done that before.

Then, after one of the calls, she received a short message: “Take care of yourself.”

The words still haunt her today.

At 7:05 p.m., Ballout called again. He asked that his mother inform her partner of over two years that he had a new phone number again. Ballout’s parents have been divorced for three years, but Ballout continued to see and speak with his father regularly, she says. And as the family prepared for the evening, the phone kept ringing. 

They were supposed to have dinner at his sister’s place. Schnitzel, his favorite meal, was on the menu. Ballout loved these family gatherings, his mother says. “They always made him happy.” That is precisely why so much of what happened next is incomprehensible to her.

“He wanted to live,” she says, her voice rough.

He had spoken of the future, about having a family of his own, about all the things that still lay ahead of him. Nothing had suggested this might be a farewell.

Shortly before 10 p.m., her partner received one more call. They were the last words Ballout deliberately addressed to his family: “Get my mother to safety.”

Minutes later, the van drove into the crowd.

* * *

By the time Ballout’s mother was driven home by her partner that night, the first reports of the attack had started to circulate. At that point, she still didn’t know exactly what had taken place. But when she entered the apartment, she says, something immediately caught her attention.

A key was still in the door.

And right beside it, on the hallway shoe cabinet, were documents that seemed to be deliberately placed where they could not be overlooked. It was the rental agreement for a small van. It listed Ballout as the renter.

“That was when I knew immediately that it couldn’t mean anything good,” she says.

That same night, she took the documents to the police. And as she was questioned, a picture slowly started to emerge — one she initially refused to accept.

At the same time, she kept trying to reach her son, sending message after message. But there was no reply. She only learned the truth the next day, when her daughters called and told her about the reports on the news.

Her son was dead.

Since then, she has spent hour after hour in her Berlin apartment searching for explanations, her thoughts circling endlessly around her son’s last words, his fear and whether there may have been something in those calls that she failed to recognize. She cannot let go of the distorted image she has of her son, of the good boy who wanted to start a family.

Asked what she would say to the victims of the terrorist attack, she thinks for a long time. She is sorry, she eventually says.

“I would also tell them that wasn’t my son.”

Additional reporting by Lennart Pfahler.

Julia Zabert is a trainee journalist with the Global Reporters Network at the Axel Springer Academy. The Academy trains the next generation of leading journalists through hands-on, innovative work with a clear focus on the future of journalism. More information at axelspringeracademy.com.

Zarmina Paryani and her four sisters fear they may soon have to again face the persecutors they fled from in Afghanistan — and this time inside Germany.

Paryani and her sisters were imprisoned twice in Kabul for protesting against the Taliban after the Afghan militants retook the capital in 2021, the 27-year-old said. After going into hiding for several months, the family eventually made their way to Germany in search of safe haven.

But now, Berlin has struck a Faustian bargain that allows the Taliban to deepen its diplomatic foothold in Germany in return for cooperation on deporting Afghan migrants back to Afghanistan. For Paryani and other Afghan activists who resisted the Taliban at home, the arrangement is giving their former persecutors new leverage over their lives in exile.

“It’s hard to accept that my fate and my affairs are being discussed with the very same representatives whose oppression, prisons, whippings and violence I fled from,” Paryani, who worked as a midwife in Kabul and now lives in western Germany, told POLITICO.

German Chancellor Friedrich Merz’s government first struck a deal with the Afghan government announced last October that gives Taliban officials control of diplomatic missions in Berlin and Bonn in exchange for permission to return Afghan migrants directly to Afghanistan. That cooperation was deepened early this summer with a deal that allows more Taliban officials to work in Germany in return for cooperation on additional deportation flights — now up to three per month.

Under the new deal, Germany has expanded deportations to include not only Afghan men convicted of crimes, but also, more broadly, Afghan men with no protected status or legal right to remain in Germany.

The agreement with the Taliban makes Germany an outlier in Europe, making it the first EU country to allow Taliban-appointed officials to work in diplomatic missions inside the country. Before the agreement, Western-oriented Afghan officials representing the former government in Afghanistan had remained in charge.

The arrangement comes as Merz’s government grapples with rock-bottom approval ratings and the rise of the anti-immigrant Alternative for Germany (AfD) party, now the country’s most popular political force, according to polls. The AfD’s surge comes ahead of two elections in the former East Germany, where the far-right party is ahead in polls by wide margins. In one of those states, Saxony-Anhalt, the party may take real governing power for the first time since it was founded in 2013, a result that would serve as a great humiliation for the conservative Merz, who was elected chancellor last year partly on a promise to crack down on migration.

The AfD’s rise is piling pressure on the chancellor to deliver on his election pledge to deport more migrants — even as he insists that working with the Taliban does not legitimize a regime notorious for its human rights abuses. Overall, Afghans are the third-largest group of refugees or people who have fled war to come to Germany, behind Ukrainians and Syrians.

“We are not extending a hand to this Taliban regime,” Merz said in the German parliament in June. “Rather, we are seeking cooperation at the necessary technical level, which is in our country’s national interest.”

‘Nightmares’ and ‘psychological distress’

For Afghan rights activists in Germany, one of the worst consequences of Berlin’s deal with the Taliban is that it may particularly put at risk some 35,000 Afghans who came to Germany under special humanitarian programs for people deemed especially vulnerable to the Taliban. They include Paryani and her sisters in addition to thousands of human rights activists and Afghans who worked with the German military during its nearly two-decade presence in the country.

Paryani and others fear they will have to face the Taliban when attempting to renew their Afghan passports — which they need to extend their humanitarian visas — at Afghan diplomatic missions. Another 321,000 Afghans live in Germany as refugees or with other forms of protected status. They do not necessarily need Afghan passports, unless they want to apply for a permanent residence status.

More generally, activists and refugees also fear the Taliban, with their growing presence in Germany, could gain access to personal information held in databases in German missions, including details about their families, making them susceptible to blackmail and extortion.

“Given my personal history and my stance on extremism, I am concerned for my safety and that of my family,” one former teacher from Afghanistan granted anonymity due to his fear of retribution from the Taliban told POLITICO.

The former teacher, who lives in Germany with a humanitarian visa, said German immigration officials have asked him to renew his expired Afghan passport, a request that he fears will force him to deal directly with his persecutors.

“This situation continues to cause me significant psychological distress,” he said. “Sometimes I wake up at night because of nightmares related to the Taliban and this situation.”

‘Vulnerable to blackmail’

With its handling of the Taliban, Merz’s government is setting a precedent that will be closely watched by other EU countries. Government officials in Austria and Belgium have said they’re watching Germany’s cooperation with the Taliban closely. Taliban officials also held talks focused on deportations with the EU Commission in June in Brussels.

But Hamid Nangialay Kabiri, the former head of the Afghan consulate in Bonn, who quit last September in protest over the initial deal allowing Taliban officials to serve in diplomatic missions in Germany, warned that the German government’s decision to cooperate with the Afghan regime would come back to haunt it — and that the Taliban would use their new leverage over Germany to advance their interests in Europe, including by building networks that intimidate dissidents.

“They are destroying my country, and now they are coming here,” he said. “They are not thinking of diplomacy. They have a lot of plans in their mind.”

It’s a sentiment politicians inside the left-leaning opposition also share.

“The German government has made itself vulnerable to blackmail,” Schahina Gambir, a lawmaker for the Greens who was born in Kabul, told POLITICO. “We’re seeing recognition through the back door. The Taliban are being granted access to embassies, they’re being granted immunity, they’re given channels for dialogue — and at the same time, the situation for women and girls in Afghanistan is getting worse and worse.”

There are already signs that the Taliban are exercising their newfound leverage.

Last May, Kabul unexpectedly halted a deportation flight at the last minute, seemingly seeking to extract additional concessions from the German government. A couple of weeks later, Berlin announced the terms of the latest agreement allowing additional Taliban-appointed officials to work at diplomatic missions in Germany.

Officials in Berlin depicted the new deal as a victory and a practical necessity, allowing for more deportations.

“To increase the number of repatriations, more passports must be issued, more identities must be verified, and so on,” Martin Giese, a spokesperson for Germany’s foreign ministry, said at the time. “To this end, it will also be necessary for more consular officials to be involved.”

But Paryani, the Afghan midwife who fled to Germany with her four sisters, said the Taliban would use their new power to torment them in the country they had sought safety in.

“A Taliban member once wrote to me: ‘Just wait until our embassy in Germany reopens. Then we’ll find you there,'” she said of a comment that had surfaced under one of her social media posts about two years ago. She then deemed it irrelevant because it seemed so unrealistic.

“Today, I feel as though that threat has become a reality,” she said.