The Grassroots Organization Taking on Germany’s Growing Far Right
Serpil Temiz Unvar’s son was murdered in a violent attack targeting immigrants. With Germany’s far-right party moving up in the polls, she’s determined to make a difference through education.
SEPTEMBER 12, 2024
This article is co-published with Foreign Policy.
On a fall day in 2022, Serpil Temiz Unvar was sitting in her kitchen when, through the window, she saw an older man and a German shepherd standing outside. Assuming the man was a neighbor, Unvar opened her window to greet him. She was bewildered when he began asking her increasingly strange and aggressive questions: Are you Kurdish? Why did you leave your homeland? How do you have enough money to live here and to go on so many vacations back in Turkey?
The experience left Unvar, 51, deeply unsettled. After the man left, she called several friends who confirmed what she already suspected: The man with the German shepherd wasn’t just a neighbor. He was also the father of her son’s killer.
Unvar’s son Ferhat, then 23, was one of nine people shot and killed in a violent rampage targeting immigrants on Feb. 19, 2020. The shooter, Tobias R., opened fire at a bar in Hanau’s center before driving across town, where he shot a man who had followed him from the first bar by car. Then, Tobias R. — identified by his first name and last initial in keeping with German privacy laws — walked into the Arena Bar & Cafe, showering patrons in a spray of bullets, Ferhat among them. The shooter then drove to his mother’s house, killed her, and turned the gun on himself.
The Hanau attack became a symbol of Germany’s struggle to extinguish far-right violence and anti-immigrant ideology.
The shootings shook Hanau, a city of just over 100,000 people 15 miles east of Frankfurt. The city is among Germany’s most diverse: Nearly 30 percent of Hanau’s population does not hold a German passport, according to recent city statistics, around twice the national average. German media reported that Tobias R. had posted a manifesto on his website shortly before the attack, which authorities described as demonstrating a “deeply racist attitude.”
The Hanau attack became a symbol of Germany’s struggle to extinguish far-right violence and anti-immigrant ideology. Then-Chancellor Angela Merkel condemned the attack, warning, “Racism is a poison. Hate is a poison.” But soon, news crews departed. Politicians who had offered solemn condolences moved on to other matters, and the country went into lockdown as the COVID-19 pandemic took hold.
Unvar felt a growing sense of rage at the government’s lack of response to the Hanau attack, she told me when I sat down with her in March. Later that year, she became an activist: She founded an educational initiative aimed at fighting racism in schools; testified on the Hanau killings in the state parliament of Hesse, where Hanau is located; and worked with the family members of other victims to pressure the government to take action to prevent future racist attacks.
But honoring Ferhat’s memory has made Unvar a target herself. The man’s 2022 visit to her home wasn’t an isolated event; Hans-Gerd R. came back that night and the next day. After Unvar filed a restraining order against him, he started sending her letters. “If you as a migrant hate the land of the German people, then please leave it, and quickly, and please go back to where you came from,” he wrote in one missive. The harassment and stalking are still going on, she told me.
Unvar’s fight against racist ideas about who belongs in Germany has laid bare how deeply ingrained this ideology remains in parts of the country — particularly as the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) party continues to creep up in the polls. “We want to trust this country, but this country also needs to protect us,” she said. “But how? I don’t know.”
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The Hanau murders came on the heels of a string of other deadly racist attacks in Germany. Less than six months earlier, in October 2019, another right-wing extremist showed up at a synagogue in the eastern city of Halle on Yom Kippur intent on murdering Jewish worshippers; he ultimately killed two people outside the synagogue. Earlier that year, a local politician in the Hessian town of Kassel, Walter Lübcke, was shot and killed by a right-wing extremist who was unhappy over the politician’s welcoming policy toward refugees.
Hanau commanded particular attention because it was a targeted assault on people with “immigration backgrounds,” the official term Germany’s Federal Statistical Office uses to describe those who were born to at least one parent who was not a German citizen. German authorities also faced intense scrutiny for their handling of the incident.
The killer had been allowed to purchase a gun despite past indications that he had a mental illness, which authorities did not adequately investigate before issuing him a weapons permit. The Hanau police were slow to respond to emergency calls about the shootings because they were chronically understaffed. An investigation by regional authorities also revealed that 13 of the officers who responded to the attack were part of a police unit that was later disbanded due to a scandal over membership in right-wing chat groups.
In the Arena Bar, where Ferhat was killed, an emergency door had been locked to keep patrons from fleeing during regular police raids on the venue to look for illegal drugs. A damning investigation by the U.K.-based group Forensic Architecture featured in an exhibition in Frankfurt two years ago found that all five of those killed in the bar could have survived had the door been unlocked.
Late last year, after years of testimony and hearings, a Hessian parliamentary committee investigating the authorities’ response to the attack issued its final report. In 642 pages, it details the various security failures that contributed to the loss of life that day. But without concrete consequences for those responsible for the security failures in Hanau, victims’ family members say it’s hard to believe anything will meaningfully change in how Germany handles right-wing and racist terrorism.
The authorities’ seeming blind spot for this kind of violence — and a lack of concrete action to prevent it — extends back far beyond Hanau.
None of the officers or authorities involved in Hanau’s security failures were disciplined or removed from their posts explicitly due to their handling of the situation. Although the Hessian parliamentary committee’s report outlined areas where German law enforcement had fallen short, those who lost family members that day felt its recommendations — for more stringent checks before issuing weapons permits, to develop anti-racism programs in schools, and to better communicate with families of victims — offered little more than lip service.
Armin Kurtovic, whose son Hamza was killed in the attacks, described the report as a “slap in the face” to the victims’ families. “I was convinced something like this wasn’t possible in this country,” he told German broadcaster Hessenschau late last year. “But the more I get involved and the more I read, the more I see: This is continuity.”
Police officers’ handling of the investigation was infuriating to Serpil Temiz Unvar, but it was hardly surprising to her and others who have tracked the history of far-right attacks in Germany. The authorities’ seeming blind spot for this kind of violence — and a lack of concrete action to prevent it — extends back far beyond Hanau.
The most famous case of recent far-right violence in Germany was that of the National Socialist Underground (NSU), a neo-Nazi terrorist cell that killed 10 people, mostly immigrants, across Germany over the course of 13 years, evading police notice. In their investigations of each murder, the police fell back on racist stereotypes of immigrants, assuming that those slain had been involved in the drug trade or victims of immigrant-on-immigrant crime; the German media dubbed them “kebab murders.”
“A nation that liked to think it had atoned for its racist past [was] forced to admit that violent prejudice was a thing of the present,” American journalist Jacob Kushner wrote in his recently published book on the NSU murders, Look Away, adding that “in an age of unparalleled mass migration, the targets of white terrorism are increasingly immigrants.”
When I arrived at the offices of Unvar’s organization, the Ferhat Unvar Educational Initiative, in March, the first thing I saw was a black-and-white mural of Ferhat. Wearing a cap and looking forward, his face appears next to the words “We are only dead when we are forgotten.” Ferhat had posted the phrase on social media before his death. It has now become his mother’s guiding principle as she builds an organization to honor his memory.
Unvar grew up in a Kurdish city in southern Turkey, near the border with Syria. Her father moved to Paris, and she eventually joined him. She moved to Hanau when she married a Kurdish man there, with whom she had four children, including Ferhat, before later separating.
In the months after her son’s killing, Unvar said she agonized over what she could have done to make his life better while he was still alive. She thought about the discrimination he faced in school as a student with an immigration background and found herself wracked with guilt that she hadn’t fought harder for him: pushing school officials harder to allow him on a more ambitious track of study, for example, or urging them to stop the discrimination he faced from teachers and other students.
“Regardless of which country I was in, I never felt alone,” she said. “I saw how many other people are also fighting in this direction against terror, for humanity, for human rights — that gave me strength.”
Ferhat was gone, but many other children with similar backgrounds faced those same tough odds at school — and there was still a way to help them, Unvar remembered thinking. Nearly nine months after the attack, on Ferhat’s birthday in November 2020, Unvar officially founded her organization, which seeks to combat racism and discrimination in the German education system, giving talks and holding trainings and workshops to empower young people struggling against systemic racism and to educate teachers about the challenges that students from immigrant communities face.
Her first donation was from a group of Ferhat’s friends, who handed her an envelope with 125 euros they had raised together. She was touched and buoyed by the gesture. “I said, OK, I couldn’t help Ferhat, but I can help them through Ferhat,” she said.
The organization has since scaled up significantly. Donations and grants helped Unvar hire staff and spread the word about their anti-discrimination workshops. Some are for school-age children and youth, giving them a safe space to talk about their experiences of discrimination or racism; others are for teachers and educators, training them to root out racism in their classrooms; yet more are for adults in other professions, including airport staff at Frankfurt Airport. Along with Initiative 19 February Hanau, an organization run by the family members of several of the Hanau victims, Unvar’s initiative won the Aachen Peace Prize in 2021.
“I never had it in my head to do something like this,” said Unvar, reflecting on how her life changed after the attack. Sitting on a black couch in one corner of the organization’s big event space, with posters depicting the organization’s logo and events on the walls and brochures for her training programs on tables across the room, Unvar was animated as she described how she and others have built the initiative into what it is today. At the same time, she said, so “many people instrumentalize [the attack], not just politicians but also others. That hurt me deeply.”
Unvar told me that she hopes to create a cross-border support network for families of victims of terrorism. In Greece, she met Magda Fyssa, the mother of Pavlos Fyssas, a young anti-fascist musician murdered by members of the neo-Nazi organization Golden Dawn. She has also traveled to Norway, Spain, and France to meet with other families of terrorist victims and with organizations that combat terrorism. Unvar spoke with local activists and experts about ways to collaborate in their fight against violent extremism and learn from one another’s experiences.
“Regardless of which country I was in, I never felt alone,” she said. “I saw how many other people are also fighting in this direction against terror, for humanity, for human rights — that gave me strength.”
But Unvar admitted that it can be difficult to press forward with her activism while feeling that no matter how hard she works, or how hard others work, her efforts are unlikely to change a country unwilling to address its shortcomings when it comes to welcoming and safeguarding immigrant communities.
In January, the German investigative news outfit Correctiv released a report about a secret meeting between right-wing extremist leaders near Berlin, including members of the far-right AfD. Those present discussed a “remigration” plan to deport millions of people with immigrant backgrounds, including those with German passports.
Unvar said the national outrage over the Correctiv report — and the millions of people who turned out to protest across the country in the weeks that followed — gave her hope that the German population at large finally understood the scale of its problem with right-wing extremism. “It’s good that [the story] came out because then people like us can see how big and important a problem it is,” she said. “The racists—they’re not letting up. We’ve seen the danger is there. … We need to really hold together against the right wing and against terror.”
Still, the AfD continues to gain ground. Riding a wave of support for far-right parties across Europe, the party gained 5 percentage points in June’s European Parliament elections, coming in second — ahead of all three of Germany’s governing parties — with 16 percent of the vote. The AfD then won its first state-level victory in the eastern German state of Thuringia on Sept. 1, taking 32.8 percent of the vote; in neighboring Saxony, it came in a close second to the center-right Christian Democrats, with 30.6 percent of the vote. A third eastern state, Brandenburg, votes on Sept. 22; the AfD is leading the polls there.
Despite the restraining order, the police told Unvar that they can’t do anything about the letters that keep arriving at her house: There are no laws in Germany against sending missives to someone via the postal system, regardless of the intolerance they contain.
The far-right party is also a growing threat in Unvar’s home state: In the years since the attack, Hesse’s political landscape has shifted to the right. The AfD won 18.4 percent to become the second-largest party in last fall’s state elections, an increase of 5.3 percentage points from the previous election in 2018.
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In February, around the anniversary of the Hanau attack, Hans-Gerd R. sent Unvar another letter. Another one followed this spring.
Hans-Gerd R. has been cited dozens of times for harassing Unvar and other victims’ family members and for repeatedly violating a restraining order against Unvar. He was taken into custody when he defied the restraining order and showed up outside her house again in 2023. He was also briefly sent to jail that year for failing to pay his fines for the various citations he had received related to that harassment.
But despite the restraining order, the police told Unvar that they can’t do anything about the letters that keep arriving at her house: There are no laws in Germany against sending missives to someone via the postal system, regardless of the intolerance they contain.
Hanau Mayor Claus Kaminsky described Hans-Gerd. R’s harassment of Unvar and other victims’ family members as “subtle, almost diabolical” terrorism in a 2023 interview with the German broadcaster ARD, saying he wished the man would leave Hanau. But he reiterated that there is little the authorities can do beyond the penalties they have already put into place. “Of course, it would be best if the father left the city, if he changed his place of residence,” Kaminsky said. “That might even be better for him. But there is no legal way to force this.”
Toward the end of our time together, I asked Unvar whether she was afraid that Hans-Gerd R. would escalate from letters and leering outside her kitchen window to something worse. Unvar’s youngest son, Mirza, who is 11, had just come into the office and sat down next to her on the black leather sofa. She wrapped her arms around him as he looked up shyly.
“I’m not afraid, no. I really have zero fear — what should I be afraid of? What can happen? I’ve already lost my dearest son,” she said.
Ultimately, as she told me repeatedly throughout the course of our conversation, her fight isn’t about her. The educational initiative, the connections abroad, the advocacy, the long hours of volunteer work — it’s about children like Ferhat who struggle to get ahead in school because of the color of their skin; it’s about Mirza, sitting on the couch next to her, being able to grow up feeling safe.
“The killer’s father is still a danger to my family,” she said. “I don’t fear for myself, but I have children.”
✺ Published in “Issue 20: Lessons” of The Dial
This article is co-published with Foreign Policy.
