Anne is not afraid, but she stays cautious. She has chosen to monitor and expose right-wing and racist violence in Berlin, and that visibility has made her a target — so she uses a pseudonym. The 30-year-old patrols Marzahn-Hellersdorf, documenting assaults, propaganda and everyday discrimination and collecting the stories of people affected.
In this eastern district, neo-Nazi groups and young extremists aim to mark their territory. They plaster stickers, paint graffiti and use other symbols to signal control of public space. Activists like Anne say the goal is to intimidate: to make it unsafe for people who look different, express alternative identities or simply refuse to conform.
Marzahn-Hellersdorf is full of contrasts. It contains Europe’s largest prefabricated housing estate, a densely built area that grew quickly after World War II and today struggles with social problems — nearly one in four children here lives in poverty. Yet the district also has parks, family housing and good public transport links; it takes only about 20 minutes by subway to reach central Alexanderplatz. Still many residents rarely leave the neighborhood, and for them the local atmosphere shapes life.
Over recent years, small but organized youth formations have pushed into neighborhoods like this one. Some of the groups have become proficient at spreading hatred online as well as on the streets. In Marzahn-Hellersdorf, that has included violent incidents — for example, attacks during a Christopher Street Day event where perpetrators were reported to include children younger than 14.
The intimidation is not always obvious at first glance. Streets and balconies look neat and well kept, but under the surface hostile messaging appears: racist stickers proclaiming slogans such as “Germany for the Germans,” slogans and gestures banned under German law, and casual street abuse. During a recent walk, activists heard someone shout a Nazi salute.
Those targeted range from visibly queer people to migrants and young people who dress differently. Anne gathers accounts: people fleeing groups of teenagers, victims of robberies, and those who change their style out of fear. The climate of threat, she says, makes young anti-fascists weigh their choices: whether to be visible, what to wear, where to go.
Gordon Lemm, deputy mayor of Marzahn-Hellersdorf and a native of the neighborhood, has seen a rise in hostility and a shrinking of safe spaces. A member of the Social Democratic Party, he notes that queer venues and community hubs common in other parts of Berlin are largely absent here. Many young people feel pressure to conform to conservative gender roles and to present a hardened appearance to avoid appearing vulnerable. Social insecurity and a sense of isolation have helped fuel a backlash against liberal values.
Local residents who experience everyday racism are among the first to feel the effects. Farzaneh, also 30, grew up in the area with a family background from Afghanistan and Iran. She wears a headscarf and has faced insults, stares and exclusion in supermarkets, on public transport and in apartment blocks. She reported incidents to a local online registry that collects accounts of racist encounters in Berlin. Rather than retreat, she says she refuses to be written off as weak and is preparing to apply for German citizenship. She finds some consolation in institutions that allow people to report discrimination — options that she says did not exist where her family came from.
Grassroots responses are taking shape. Once a week a converted construction trailer turns into a “Cafe on Wheels” in the heart of Hellersdorf. Run by Barbara Jungnickel, a community educator for the local Protestant church, the cafe aims to open space for informal conversation. Jungnickel began the project in 2013 after a refugee shelter opened nearby and far-right demonstrations drew locals to shout against newcomers. Her goal is simple: invite neighbors to talk, listen without steering the conversation and build bridges.
These small initiatives are the frontline in a broader effort to push back against an aggressive minority. Activists, community workers, affected residents and local officials refuse to cede public space to violent extremists. They document incidents, support victims, organize dialogue projects and try to create safe places where people can be visible without fear.
Their work is not a cure-all, but it matters: municipal officials and volunteers say that visibility, reporting, community outreach and everyday solidarity can blunt the reach of radical groups. In Marzahn-Hellersdorf — and across cities facing similar challenges — the response combines documentation, legal avenues, grassroots social work and public awareness to resist normalization of hatred.
This article was translated from German.