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Germany’s recent move of halting the export of certain weapons to Israel to prevent their potential use in the Gaza Strip conveys a radical shift in its state policy. The move comes on the heels of Israel’s plan to expand military operations in the besieged territory. While exceptional at first glance, the move requires better comprehension through the lens of Berlin’s political identity that is built on the ghastly memories of the Holocaust. Germany’s position on Israel continues to be influenced by the Holocaust that marks its moral compass and a cornerstone of state policy. Thus, examining the historical grievances, subsequent legal framework and the enduring principle of Staatsräson reveals whether Germany’s recent decision is a break with the past or a calculated pause.
It has been nearly two years since Hamas’s October 7 assault on Israel unleashed another catastrophic war in Gaza. In the aftermath, governments across the world have revised their positions, weathered domestic protest, and struggled to reconcile Israel’s right to self-defense with the unbearable civilian toll. Several European nations have backed ceasefires or taken the symbolic step of recognizing Palestinian statehood. Germany, however, had remained firmly in place — until now.
A few days ago, Berlin announced that it would halt arms exports that could be used in Gaza — a move that, on the surface, suggests Berlin crossed the Rubicon. But to mistake this decision for a fundamental break with longstanding policy is to misunderstand the nature of Germany’s position, led by the Holocaust not only as a historical tragedy, but as a framework for foreign policy. A doctrine shaped by guilt, by the moral reckoning that followed the Nazi era, and by the belief that Germany’s postwar redemption depends in part on its fidelity to the Jewish state. That belief has been institutionalized over decades and will not be easily dislodged by contemporary events, however, tragic.
To mistake this decision for a fundamental break with longstanding policy is to misunderstand the nature of Germany’s position, led by the Holocaust not only as a historical tragedy, but as a framework for foreign policy
To understand why Germany cannot indiscriminately pivot on Israel, one must begin not in Gaza, nor in 1948, but in 1945.
Germany’s postwar identity was not constructed on a blank slate. It was built atop a void — an absence of moral legitimacy. The crimes of the Nazi regime were not peripheral to the country’s new identity, but its foundation and the Federal Republic of Germany emerged not only from the rubble of war, but from the ashes of a moral collapse. While the United States and its allies undertook Germany’s economic and political reconstruction — the Marshall Plan, the Basic Law — the psychic reconstruction required something else entirely: contrition.
That work was slow. But by the early 1950s, a framework for moral restitution began to take shape. In 1952, West German Chancellor Konrad Adenauer and Israeli Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion signed the Luxembourg Agreement. It was not merely a financial accord but diplomatic, legal, and symbolic one — an act of recognition between a new Germany and a fledgling Jewish state. It established the first formal relationship between postwar Germany and the Jewish people, and marked the beginning of a policy that, remarkably, has remained intact ever since.
By the 1990s, following reunification and the end of the Cold War, this policy had matured into something far more profound. The memory of the Holocaust had evolved — from a source of national shame into a cornerstone of political virtue. In this reconfigured moral order, support for Israel became more than foreign policy. It became proof that Germany had learned from its past and had earned its place in the European Union, in NATO, and eventually, on the world stage.
It marks the foundation of what Germans call Staatsräson—reason of state. In 2008, Chancellor Angela Merkel made that doctrine explicit in an address to the Israeli Knesset: “Israel’s security is part of Germany’s reason of state.” She chose her words carefully. A “reason of state” is not a policy preference. It is not a strategic alliance. It is an existential commitment. And in Germany — where existential commitments are shaped by history, not strategy — they are rarely reconsidered.
Over time, the Merkel doctrine has been codified not only in rhetoric, but in law, woven into the fabric of the German state in ways that now transcend party politics. In 2024, the Bundestag passed a naturalization reform requiring all prospective citizens to affirm Israel’s right to exist as a condition for obtaining German citizenship. It is the only instance in which loyalty to the existence of a foreign country is enshrined in German immigration law. That it passed with cross party support is not incidental but proof of how deeply the commitment to Israel has been institutionalized across the political spectrum.
However, Germany’s moral exceptionalism has increasingly collided with its self-image as a champion of the rules-based international order. In principle, Berlin defends international law—imposing sanctions on Russia, Iran, and Belarus within the EU. Yet when it comes to Israel, that principle falters. Even as civilian casualties mounted in Gaza and the International Criminal Court moved to consider charges of genocide, Germany continued to interpret Israel’s actions as lawful self-defense. Until now, Germany remained one of Israel’s largest arms suppliers. Between Hamas’s attack and mid-May of this year, Germany authorized military equipment exports to Israel totaling $566 million.
In principle, Berlin defends international law—imposing sanctions on Russia, Iran, and Belarus within the EU. Yet when it comes to Israel, that principle falters
These sales are technically legal under German law, but only on the condition that the weapons comply with international humanitarian law — a requirement that has been waived, repeatedly, through ministerial discretion. Such legal maneuvering had not gone unnoticed by Germany’s European partners, especially those who increasingly view Berlin’s devotion to international law as selective .i.e. moral authority when convenient, exceptionalism when not. To them, the contradiction was glaring: Germany demands accountability from its adversaries but extends impunity to its allies — so long as they are linked to its past.
On August 8, however—just one day after Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu declared his intention to “take over Gaza,” a move widely interpreted as signaling permanent occupation — Germany appeared to cross a line. The government announced it would halt arms exports to Israel that could be used in Gaza. Friedrich Merz, chancellor and leader of the CDU offered a rare note of public doubt: it had become, he admitted, “extremely difficult to understand” how such plans would help achieve legitimate security aims. It was, for Berlin, a dramatic gesture. But whether it marks a true inflection point — or merely a tactical pause in a longstanding policy — is far from clear.
But until now, Germany’s stance on Israel has increasingly isolated it from its allies. In 2024, Spain, Norway, and Ireland formally recognized Palestinian statehood. France has announced its commitment to do so in September. The United Kingdom has also pledged recognition if the Israeli government fails to take steps to end the “intolerable situation” in Gaza. The list of countries that have recognized or are considering recognizing Palestine is growing significantly. Even in the United States, a recent Senate vote exposed deepening partisan fractures over support for Israel.
Inside the European Union, Germany’s consistent refusal to back common resolutions critical of Israel has forced the bloc into diluted statements or outright paralysis. But this isolation is more than just a diplomatic inconvenience — it signals a deeper divergence in political culture. Most European states now see the moral legacy of the Holocaust as a universal obligation to protect civilians from atrocity, wherever they may be. Germany, by contrast, treats it as a specific duty to safeguard Jewish life. That difference, subtle in language, remains seismic in practice.
As a result, Germany has arguably suffered more reputational damage than any other Western state, except Israel. In the Global South, Berlin’s calls for international norms will now be routinely dismissed as hypocritical. Any future criticism it directs at Arab regimes over human rights will likely fall on deaf ears, shadowed by its exceptionalism toward Israel. But as Germany seeks a permanent seat on the UN Security Council and deeper influence in EU foreign policy, its ability to reconcile Staatsräson with universal norms will become a test of credibility.
As Germany seeks a permanent seat on the UN Security Council and deeper influence in EU foreign policy, its ability to reconcile Staatsräson with universal norms will become a test of credibility
For foreign observers expecting a further sharp shift in Germany’s position under mounting international pressure, such expectations betray a misunderstanding of the country’s political DNA. The constraints are not simply ideological but remain structural, cultural, and deeply internalized.
Germany’s mainstream political consensus on Israel is unusually rigid, even by Western standards. The center-right Christian Democratic Union (CDU) and its Bavarian sister party, the Christian Social Union (CSU), remain firmly committed to almost unconditional support for Israel. The center-left Social Democratic Party (SPD), part of the governing coalition, may occasionally strike a more cautious tone, but rarely diverges on substance. The Greens, who once occupied the role of Israel’s most prominent critics in German mainstream politics, now speak more softly. They had previously called for halting arms exports — but their moral urgency rang hollow when those demands vanished during their tenure in office.
Even at the political margins, the pattern holds. The far-right Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) supports Israel not out of solidarity with Jews, but as part of its anti-Muslim and anti-immigration platform. On the far left, Die Linke — long sympathetic to Palestinian causes — has fractured under the weight of internal discord and accusations of antisemitism.
Public discourse follows a similar pattern. In much of the German press, criticism of Israeli policy rarely leads to serious debate; it is met instead with suspicion — of bad faith, of antisemitism, of dangerous forgetfulness. Axel Springer, Germany’s most powerful media group, enshrines support for Israel as part of its corporate identity. Across much of the country’s political and journalistic culture, the same equation holds support for Israel not as a policy choice, but a moral imperative. What might look, from the outside, like reflexive semi-authoritarianism is something more elusive and more deeply entrenched: the enduring power of historical memory as a disciplining force. In Germany, the past does not merely shape the present — it defines its moral boundaries.
Despite strong political consensus in Germany regarding Israel, the prolonged war in Gaza and the escalating humanitarian crisis in the Strip have begun to alter public sentiment. Recent opinion polls highlight a widening gap between public opinion and the entrenched political consensus.
An ARD-Deutschland TREND survey in early August found that 66 percent of Germans now want their government to exert more pressure on Israel to change its behavior — a sharp rise from 57 percent in April 2024, according to a Forsa poll. Nearly half of respondents (47 percent) believe Berlin is doing too little for Palestinians in Gaza, while only 39 percent disagree. Strikingly, just 31 percent feel that Germany bears a greater responsibility toward Israel because of its history, compared to 62 percent, who reject this view outright.
These figures suggest a gradual deviation from the historical narrative that has long underpinned Germany’s Staatsräson. Yet despite this shift in public opinion, the political mainstream remains firmly committed to the postwar doctrine. Both the governing coalition and the opposition continue to treat support for Israel as a moral imperative embedded into the fabric of the state. The durability of Germany’s position rests not on popular mandate, but on deeply institutionalized political culture.
Both the governing coalition and the opposition continue to treat support for Israel as a moral imperative embedded into the fabric of the state. The durability of Germany’s position rests not on popular mandate, but on deeply institutionalized political culture
Many German leaders will worry that any further shift on Israel would not merely trigger accusations of antisemitism but could upend the moral scaffolding of the postwar republic itself. To abandon its exceptionalism would mean questioning a national identity built on a unique responsibility. Germany has tethered its international credibility to the conduct of a foreign government whose actions it cannot control. This, so far, had produced a policy paralysis. Germany was unable to adapt to new facts or allegations without risking a moral crisis.
Latest developments notwithstanding, the political structure will ensure continuity. The conservative CDU/CSU bloc, which steers foreign policy, is unlikely to endorse deeper changes such as recognizing Palestine or enforcing the ICC’s arrest warrant against Netanyahu. That would require a government rupture, something the SPD lacks the strength to provoke. After all, abysmal polls suggest it would be punished at the ballot box for trying and likely become an opposition party if it tried.
Even the far-right AfD complicates matters. Paradoxically pro-Israel, it has turned support into part of its anti-Muslim identity. Any further pivot by the mainstream risks ceding rhetorical ground to a party already rising in the polls. Germany may offer humanitarian aid, pause exports, and issue additional careful rebukes. But absent a major external shock or internal political realignment, the doctrine — fraying at the edges — still holds. In sum, the principle, though faltering on the fringes, still stands, making Berlin’s latest move a carefully considered pause rather than a turning point in state policy.