Germany’s Rearmament Is Stunning  

The sign in the window of the German army’s storefront career center in downtown Berlin suggested it would be open all afternoon for inquiries about joining the armed forces, or Bundeswehr. But the doors were locked on a cold November day, with no lights on and no one inside. The same was true the next day when I tried again. “What kind of message does that send?” my friend, a former soldier who accompanied me, asked scornfully. “It’s like so much about the Bundeswehr these days—underfunded, undermanned, underequipped, and undervalued by the public, which still doesn’t really understand why Germany needs an army.” 

Eighty years after the end of World War II, as Russia escalates attacks against Europe and the U.S. threatens to turn away from the transatlantic alliance, Germany is undergoing a historic shift. In 2022, then-Chancellor Olaf Scholz called it a Zeitenwende—a “watershed moment”—and mandated a one-off infusion of €100 billion in defense spending, nearly doubling Germany’s previous annual allocation. The first thing his successor, Friedrich Merz, did after being elected last year was to amend the constitution’s “brake” on borrowing to pay for weapons and ammunition. Germany is now on track to spend €650 billion on the military over the next five years, more than doubling the amount disbursed in the previous five years. 

Just days before I visited that closed army career center, Merz’s coalition government agreed to a new conscription law that could double the number of men ready to fight, growing the Bundeswehr from 180,000 to 260,000 soldiers and building the reserve force to 200,000. (Women aren’t required to comply with the new requirements but may volunteer.) 

There is no longer any doubt that Germany is broadly committed to rearmament. A prospect that might once have provoked anxiety in Europe and North America is now broadly welcomed in the West. But that doesn’t make it easy for the German people, shaped by decades of post-World War II pacifism.  

Considerable majorities support increased defense spending, and over half favor enlarging the army. But the consensus is incomplete; the far right and the far left oppose many of the changes. Even among centrist voters, many are torn—struggling with the government’s decisions and unsure what they mean for German national identity. Also unclear: Will the buildup occur in time? With European intelligence experts warning that Russia could be ready to attack a Western nation by 2029, Germany doesn’t have long to make a tectonic shift. 

Sönke Marahrens helped me understand the scope of the German transformation when we met for lunch in Berlin. A short man with a receding hairline, Marahrens spent many years in the military, rising to the rank of colonel. Now a fellow at Kiel University’s Institute for Security Policy, he recalls decades of deep-seated pacifism since 1945. 

Popular guilt and shame built through the 1950s and 60s as Germans learned the whole truth about Nazi militarism and antisemitism. The Bundeswehr, created in 1955, played a critical part in NATO deterrence of the Soviet Union. But the Cold War also fanned public doubts about a German military, sparking fears of a nuclear conflict on German soil. The fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 eased this anxiety but ushered in new concerns: Why did Germany need an army now that the Cold War was over and all its neighbors were friendly? As recently as a decade ago, Germans were still so ambivalent toward the military that uniformed soldiers returning from Afghanistan were called names and threatened in public places. 

Even today, Marahrens told me, German soldiers feel misunderstood and neglected. No one ever tells a soldier, “Thank you for your service.” Both left and right were critical of a 2024 law creating a national Veterans Day. Voters remain more focused on domestic issues than foreign policy, and most are ambivalent about the use of force. “Germany’s strategic culture has been not to have a strategic culture,” the career soldier explains. “There is no war mindset, and many young people still don’t understand why we need a strong military.” 

Public opinion surveys bear him out: Attitudes are changing, but still ambivalent. Poll after poll shows a growing awareness of foreign threats. A 2025 survey conducted by the nonprofit More In Common found a stunning 74 percent of German respondents were concerned about “a war in Europe in the next few years.” Other polling by the Bundeswehr Center for Military History and Social Sciences finds the public well-informed about growing Russian revanchism and its threats, including gray-zone or hybrid war.  

But Russian aggression is only half the problem. The new attitude in Washington—Donald Trump’s regular disparagement of Europe and threats to intervene in the continent’s domestic politics—is just as alarming. According to More in Common, two-thirds of Germans agree that “when in doubt, we can and should no longer rely on military assistance from the U.S.” The nonprofit’s focus groups underscore how anxious many Germans are about the fraying transatlantic relationship, feeling alone and “unprotected” in an increasingly dangerous world.  

More in Common, the Bundeswehr Center, and other surveys find large majorities of Germans favor increased military spending, and Defense Minister Boris Pistorius, a principal architect of the arms buildup, has been Germany’s most popular politician for two years running. 

Still, even as their fears mount, many Germans remain hesitant about the use of force. More in Common finds the public split down the middle on Germany’s role in the world, with 45 percent saying the nation should “refrain from international leadership.” Only 29 percent feel that “military means may be necessary to resolve international conflicts.” According to the Bundeswehr Center, only 11 percent of adults under 50 would be willing to take up arms to defend their country, and a 2024 worldwide Gallup ranking of nations’ willingness to go to war puts Germany near the bottom of the list—above only Italy and Japan. 

My friend, the former soldier, who asked not to be named, helped me make sense of these contradictions. “Things are changing, but there’s still something missing,” he explained. “It’s about culture. People see there’s a threat. But anything military is still met with skepticism. People are torn and struggling to come to grips with what’s needed—to the point that many would rather just not think about it.” 

The German political debate mirrors this public ambivalence. Among mainstream parties, the chancellor’s center-right Christian Democratic Union and its sister party, the Christian Social Union, are the most committed to rearming. But they are constrained by their coalition partner, the center-left Social Democratic Party, which is sharply divided between hawks and doves. The center-left Greens have shifted the most since Russia invaded Ukraine and now stand solidly in favor of stronger deterrence. But parties to its left are generally opposed, and the most extreme are explicitly pro-Russia. Rising on the far right and casting a shadow over every facet of German political life, the Alternative für Deutschland, supported today by 26 percent of voters, is fiercely nationalistic but favors better relations with Moscow.  

What this means in practice: a working consensus among mainstream parties has pushed through the measures needed to unleash a historic military buildup, but not without interference from the hesitant outliers, some more extreme than others.  

The SPD’s Ralf Stegner is a leading voice among center-left doves. A somber-looking man with a square brow and horn-rimmed glasses, he’s eager to explain what he sees as the nuances of his position. “I’m not a pacifist,” he tells me, “but I’m against war.”  

His main argument: that defense spending cuts into other expenditures, including social programs, angering voters and opening the way to the far right. He also underscores the risk of nuclear war—still a flashpoint for many Germans. “The nuclear threat is still very real,” he warns me, “and as long as that’s the case, it makes sense to negotiate.” Other centrist elites aligned with Stegner are eager for a negotiated peace that would allow Germany to resume oil and gas imports from Russia. 

Still, despite his combative talk, there’s something defensive, almost besieged, about Stegner’s tone. “When I go on television, it’s four-to-one,” he grumbles. “There’s very little tolerance today for those who question the military logic.” Tellingly, neither he nor others in the SPD who oppose a military buildup have been able to do more than trim around the edges.  

Berlin easily overrode pacifist objections to NATO’s new requirement that members more than double the share of GDP they spend on defense and related infrastructure. Indeed, Germany is likely to reach the 5 percent goal before any other big country in the alliance except Poland. SPD doves managed to block mandatory military service for the time being—the new conscription law requires only that young men register and undergo a physical. But if voluntary recruitment fails to meet the government’s ambitious goals, parliament must revisit the issue and will, in all likelihood, stiffen requirements. Stegner and friends have succeeded in preventing the coalition from sending long-range Taurus missiles to Ukraine. Yet Germany remains Kyiv’s largest European donor, and the Merz coalition has moved forcefully to head off the resumption of Russian oil and gas imports. 

With nearly twice as many followers as the SPD, the far-right AfD poses a more serious potential obstacle to German rearmament. The AfD’s nationalist roots prevented it from opposing the conscription law—it took no position, for or against. But the party objects to military aid for Ukraine, calls for lifting sanctions against Russia, and has expressed strong support for resuming oil and gas imports. Despite the faction’s rising popularity, particularly in eastern Germany, a mainstream political “firewall” prevents it from participating in government. But this hasn’t stopped it from advancing Moscow’s interests. With party cochair Tino Chrupalla insisting that Russia poses no threat to Germany, AfD lawmakers have been accused of disclosing German military secrets and accepting payment to advance Russian influence operations. 

Longtime CSU member of parliament Thomas Silberhorn isn’t afraid of these or any other political obstacles. A slender man with boyish good looks who has advocated for a stronger military since before the 2022 invasion of Ukraine, Silberhorn credits Friedrich Merz with launching an unstoppable transformation. The chancellor’s dramatic early decision to lift the debt brake “set the stage,” Silberhorn says, for NATO’s July commitment to higher defense spending by all members, and this in turn “allowed Trump to reaffirm his solidarity with the alliance.” Now, with the new German budget and conscription law on the books, “there are no bottlenecks. We’re on the path. The orders have been given to industry. We just need time to complete the buildup.” Also importantly, Silberhorn is convinced that the needed changes can be accomplished before the next federal elections in 2029.  

Resolute and confident, the veteran lawmaker shrugs off my questions about public ambivalence. “That’s a question of leadership,” he explains. “We need to describe the situation clearly and make sure people understand what the consequences will be if Russia wins in Ukraine and moves against Europe.” At several points in our conversation, he echoes what he tells his constituency in Bavaria. “People understand that the world is changing,” he says. There’s a growing awareness of the Russian threat and, as necessary, a growing sense that Europe needs to take care of its own security. “I tell my constituents,” he reports, “The Americans will sell us weapons. But we have to shoot for ourselves.” 

“Voters understand,” Silberhorn maintains, “that what we’re doing is for us—not because Trump or anyone else says we should.” With the proper leadership, he is convinced, the German public will even support Merz’s goal of fielding the strongest army in Europe. “Why shouldn’t we?” Silberhorn asks. “Who else will do it?” 

Can Germany pull it off? Will it? Even with essential laws in place and growing political will, there remains one potential stumbling block: industrial capacity. Berlin plans to continue purchasing some American weaponry and is looking to buy European. Yet roughly half of upcoming outlays are expected to flow through German contractors. Many in political and business circles hope that expanded production of weapons and ammunition can replace some automotive manufacturing, which has been sputtering for nearly a decade under pressure from Chinese imports and rising energy prices. But a few early experiments suggest this may be more difficult than it sounds.  

Plant conversion tends to be slow and expensive. Skilled labor that left the auto industry as long ago as 2017 will need to be rehired or replaced and trained. Even the most expansive defense buildup is unlikely to supplant the automotive industry at the center of the German economy. In 2025, according to Deutsche Bank, after nearly a decade of decline, carmakers still employed 10 times as many people as defense firms and accounted for 10 times as large a share of GDP. Yet many workers in hard-hit manufacturing regions are hoping for jobs in new weapons factories—despite ambivalent feelings about rearmament. 

Former Bundeswehr officer Yorck Hesselbarth, now a principal in a defense tech startup that works with the armed forces, would like to see Berlin do more to accelerate an industrial transition. Friends in the investment business tell him prospects look bright. Defense-related investment instruments, once nonexistent in Germany, are proliferating and attracting mounting interest from funders. But Hesselbarth, a large man with short curly hair, says old regulations prevent many banks from investing in defense companies, and the government is AWOL.  

“It could be working to transition some portion of the auto industry,” he says. “It should also be promoting a new tier of innovative startups to feed into the big, existing defense manufacturers. This is an opportunity to build a new defense industrial base—an engine of growth that combines today’s digital savvy with the manufacturing prowess of an earlier era. But the government isn’t doing any of that, and it has no plan for the future.”  

Still, in the end, whatever Berlin does, much will depend on public sentiment. The Zeitenwende will not succeed unless private investors, unemployed factory workers, voters, and draft-age men, among others, get over their mixed feelings about a strong military. 

Many signs are positive. Some polls suggest the public may be ahead of the government—eager to move more quickly and decisively toward rearmament. One survey by YouGov found that those in favor of compulsory military service far outnumbered those who think conscription should remain voluntary—54 percent to 40 percent. Corporate lawyer Malte Symann makes a similar point about the federal budget. “My friends don’t understand,” he says impatiently. “Why is this government still so focused on social spending—plans for additional pension payments for mothers? That money should be feeding into the defense buildup.”  

Symann tells me he’s looking for a civil defense program that would allow him to devote a few days each quarter to military training. A wiry, dark-haired man with a high forehead, he says he wants to be prepared to do his part if Germany is attacked. “I would sacrifice,” he tells me. “I’m eager to do it—and many in my generation would do it.” The new conscription law will test this willingness. The nation will only reach its goal if enough men volunteer for the armed forces, and no one knows what share will answer the call, despite generous pay raises and other promised improvements to recruitment and training.  

I tried to test public willingness by asking the Berliners I met about patriotism—would they say they were proud to be German? Symann pointed to the 2006 World Cup soccer championship held in Berlin. “That was the first time in my lifetime that I saw a German flag waved with pride,” he recalled. But even today, 20 years later, one 30-something man who asked not to be named told me he and his friends were still hesitant. “Thinking of myself as European makes more sense to me,” he said. Another man about the same age countered that things are changing, particularly in his generation, and he was “tempted to say yes”—but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to utter the words.  

Lawmaker Thomas Silberhorn acknowledged that the road ahead could be difficult. “It took a long time to make these decisions,” he reflects, “more than a decade. And it takes a lot of pressure to bring us to act. But now is the time. We simply must get it done. This is the task of our generation, and it cannot be postponed.”