In Magdeburg, Grief and Solidarity Hold a Mirror to Division

When I stepped off the train at Magdeburg’s main station, the atmosphere was tense. Police in full tactical gear stood scattered across the platform, their presence heavy and watchful.

In the distance, the sharp, angry chants of an Alternative for Germany (AfD) rally pierced the stillness, each syllable a jagged edge cutting through the sombre fabric of the city. The mood was heavy—a city bracing itself against both grief and division.

I walked from the station towards Allee-Center, the path to the Christmas market that had been shattered by tragedy just two days ago. A 50-year-old doctor had driven a BMW into the bustling Christmas market, leaving behind a scene of horror.

Now, those same streets felt drained of life, as though the very bricks and cobblestones carried the weight of sorrow. The hum of everyday life had given way to an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of coats or the sound of hesitant footsteps.

At the edge of the market, a line of mourners stretched long and quiet. They held candles, their flickering flames fragile against the biting wind. Faces—some lined with age, others fresh with youth—reflected a shared sadness, a collective grief that bound strangers together.

The Christmas market itself was unrecognisable. Just days ago, it had been alive with lights, laughter, and the comforting aroma of roasted nuts. Now it stood still in silence. Shutters were down like closed eyelids, and stillness had taken over.

The fairy lights still blinked awkwardly, their cheer out of sync, out of place, at odds with the grief surrounding them.

Children had played here not long ago, tugging at their parents’ hands to ride the Ferris wheel. Friends had gathered over steaming mugs of Glühwein, their laughter filling the cold winter air, their conversations weaving warmth into the frost.

Now, there was only the sound of the wind, carrying with it the faint noise of coats brushing together as mourners shuffled forward to light their candles. Each flame added a fragile point of light to the growing constellation of grief.

Nearby, a group of schoolchildren and volunteers handed out candles. I approached Theo, a 14-year-old girl with a scarf pulled up to her nose to block the cold. I asked her why she had come, knowing many had stayed away, fearful of violence from the nearby AfD rally. “It makes me feel better to see everyone here together. It’s sad, but it helps,” she said. “When people take a candle and smile at me, it makes me happy.” Her friend added, “It’s hard, but this is our way of helping.”

They were children, yet their quiet determination reflected a strength that came from solidarity.

Across from the market, people gathered on the church steps, placing flowers, candles, and small toys as tributes to the five lives lost. Among the tributes, there were teddy bears and tiny dog figurines—a heartbreaking reminder of the nine-year-old child who had been killed in the attack.

The sight of those toys was inescapable. It brought a lump to my throat.

A mother knelt with her toddler, placing a white rose and a stuffed bunny among the sea of candles. The scene was gut-wrenching. It was impossible not to feel the weight of the city’s grief.

Between the market and the church, the road stood as a dividing line, a chasm, a scar on the city. Firefighters and emergency workers had parked their vehicles there, their blue lights still flashing in a quiet, steady rhythm that seemed to echo the city’s broken heartbeat.

Couples held each other, their faces buried in scarves that muffled sobs, as though even their grief needed to be contained.

The wind was harsh, relentless, snuffing out candles as quickly as they were lit. When mine went out, an older man beside me leaned over with his candle. “Here,” he said softly, his hands steady as he relit my candle. “We keep each other going,” he said simply, his voice low but firm.

Around us, I watched as others did the same, passing their light to strangers. It was a quiet, simple act, the essence of hope—not grand gestures but deeply human. In the face of darkness, people were holding each other up.

Not far from this scene of solidarity, however, a different kind of gathering was taking place.

The AfD, classified as a right-wing extremist party by German intelligence, had called for a rally. Their supporters—around several hundred strong—marched with banners and shouted slogans like “Deutschland für Deutsche” and calls for “remigration.”

Their chants were loud, angry, and weaponised collective grief to push their extremist agenda.

Their presence felt like an invasion—a contempt for the quiet dignity of the mourners.

The attacker, it turned out, was not what most security experts would have described as a typical terrorist. A 50-year-old consultant psychiatrist who had arrived in Germany in 2006, he had renounced his faith and declared himself “ex-Islam” and even gave interviews to the BBC and other media outlets, describing himself as the “most critical of Islam.”

Sometimes, I wonder how it takes just one person’s hate to unravel joy, plunging an entire city—and even a nation—into grief and horror.

On his social media account (Twitter/X), he had passionately supported the anti-immigrant Alternative for Germany (AfD) party, shared their propaganda, railed against what he called the “Islamisation” of Europe, and expressed admiration for Elon Musk’s recent turn towards divisive, inflammatory rhetoric and praise for the AfD.

This was a man who had once sought refuge in the country, only to later become consumed by a far-right narrative of fear and exclusion. His actions challenged the stereotype of a terrorist, which has often been narrowly defined as Islamist or far-left extremist.

Here was someone who fit neither mould—a man clearly Islamophobic but attempting to neatly fit the pattern of a terrorist assigned by so-called experts to “Islamist terrorism” while propagating far-right ideology.

The timing of the attack could not have been worse.

The German government, led by Social Democrats (Chancellor Olaf Scholz), had lost a vote of confidence in the Bundestag (German Parliament), and federal elections were scheduled for 23 February 2025.

The AfD, once dismissed as a fringe party, had now been polling as the second-largest political force nationwide. Their rise is no longer confined to East Germany—a troubling reality that spoke to the deep divisions in the country. With the elections looming, the AfD sought to exploit grief.

Mourners’ grief mirrored the struggles of a nation divided. But amidst the sorrow, there was hope—a fragile but persistent light. It was in the hands of Theo and her friends, in the gestures of strangers relighting candles, and in the quiet strength of the city coming together.

Magdeburg’s grief is heavy, and the road ahead for Germany is uncertain. Hate, as it often does, may shout loudly and perhaps, find power in violence, but hope has its own voice—a softer, steadier one.

Magdeburg will heal, not quickly and not without scars, but in time, Magdeburg will knit itself back together, one flickering flame at a time, one act of kindness at a time.