Eastern Germany’s First Big Mosque — “Probably Easier To Get A Nuclear Plant Built”

ERFURT – Driving past Erfurt’s industrial zone on the western edge of the city, you might catch sight of a mosque, its small minaret peeking out between the municipal emergency protection center and a car repair shop. Modest and discreet, many people drive by daily without even noticing it. Architecturally, it’s understated, even serene.

But the atmosphere is anything but peaceful in the capital of the Central German state of Thuringia. The mosque has become a rallying point for Islamophobes, far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) sympathizers, and others wary of migration. The agitation and the hatred began even before the first stone was laid in November 2018.

In March 2017, supporters of the right-wing extremist group One Percent Initiative erected crosses up to 11 meters high on the adjacent property. Just a few months later, pig carcasses were found impaled on sticks at the construction site. State security had to step in to investigate.

The AfD also stirred opposition to the mosque, drawing 700 angry people to protest on the overgrown lot where the mosque now stands. Elsewhere in Erfurt, a right-wing extremist performed a mock execution, complete with fake blood, in a twisted parody of jihadist violence. The intimidation was so intense that several East German construction companies refused to supply raw materials, so ultimately, a firm from Hesse took on the build.

Now, the first mosque with a visible dome and minaret in a former East German state is on the verge of completion. Only a few finishing touches remain — some lamps need installing, a few tiles need fixing — but the green and white prayer rug is already laid out. The official opening is planned for next year. But will the aggression have died down by then?

Fierce opposition

After work on a Friday in September, 37-year-old Suleman Malik made his way to the mosque. As spokesperson for the Ahmadiyya Muslim community, he had championed the mosque from the start.

There are a little over 100 Ahmadiyya Muslims in Thuringia. Known for their reformist approach within Islam, the Ahmadiyya community is loyal to the state and hierarchically organized in a mission-like structure. In India and Pakistan, where the Ahmadiyya Muslims have roots, they face persecution, which has driven many, like Malik — who arrived in Erfurt as a teenager — into exile.

Malik, who works in human resources management and is a father of three, holds his Friday prayers in his Erfurt apartment. There are no public rooms in the whole of Thuringia where Muslims from the Ahmadiyya community can meet. That is why the idea of the mosque came about, a project — according to the community — costing 1.5 million euros, financed by donations and realized with a lot of volunteer work.

Malik is standing in front of the entrance to the mosque, a wheelbarrow next to him and two surveillance cameras above him. Years ago, Malik said “It’s just as hard to find a plot of land for a mosque as it would be for a nuclear power plant.”

Little did he know then that it would take seven years before he was given permission for a plot of land on the outskirts of Erfurt-Marbach. Today, Malik confirms his suspicion from years ago: “Yeah, it’s probably easier to open a nuclear power plant.”

Only about 4% of the 5.5 million Muslims in Germany live in the East.

The Ahmadiyya spokesman was spat on and insulted in Erfurt city center when he handed out flyers to inform people about his community and the mosque project. He also received death threats.

“I never thought about giving up,” says Malik. He was encouraged by the support of other religious communities, pastors, priests, rabbis. They all came to the brick laying ceremony in 2018, as did Bodo Ramelow (from the socialist party The Left), then president of Thuringia.

The police protected them from an angry mob on the other side of the street, shouting crude conspiracy theories into megaphones. Posters bore slogans such as: “They are building a stronghold of their Islamic conquest!” Somewhat absurd when you consider that only about 4% of the 5.5 million Muslims in Germany live in the East. Thuringia is home to an even smaller estimate of 7,000 Muslim people.

Hardly any other building project in Germany was fought as fiercely as the mosque in Erfurt. Even before the first groundbreaking ceremony, Islamophobic groups collected more than 1,500 signatures and submitted a petition to the state parliament. In it, they called for a “regulation of religious and cultural conflicts and dangers in sacred buildings”. It had to be formulated in such general terms, otherwise the mosque dispute would never have made it to the state parliament.

Yet another opponent

The petition was started by Patrick Aue, a management consultant from Erfurt-Marbach. The district with a population of 4,000 borders the mosque’s property. Even though Aue lives a good 20-minute walk away, he has been campaigning against the mosque from the very start. Over the phone, he sounds short-tempered and cannot explain what exactly bothers him about it.

“For me, the matter is settled,” Aue says. He chose the petition as a democratic tool. But he is neither an AfD member nor an Islamophobe, he says. Quite the opposite. He is very open-minded toward religions and supports the Buddhist-Vietnamese cultural association in Erfurt. Will he drop by when the mosque opens in the coming months? Silence on the other end of the phone line. Then he hangs up.

After the petition failed, the mosque suddenly had a new opponent: the field hamster. Anti-Islam activists held signs depicting the adorable rodent, claiming the construction site encroached on its protected habitat.

Some speculated that field hamsters had been deliberately released on the grounds to halt the project in the name of species conservation. The Erfurt Nature Conservation Association, formed in Marbach, emphasized its concerns about the hamster’s welfare, and its chairman, Thomas Maier, refutes claims that the hamster issue was anti-Islam posturing.

“All we wanted was an environmental report to confirm that the site wouldn’t harm the European hamster,” he says, insisting he’d have done the same for any construction — be it a school or playground. Since then, his association has moved on to other tasks, like mapping partridges and maintaining orchards. Maier has no plans to visit the mosque once it opens.

Kindergarten vs. mosque?

Ahmadiyya spokesman Malik says he believes in dialogue and is ready to make compromises. No muezzin call will be heard from the mosque, not even a recorded call to prayer. The decorative minaret is eight meters high, well below the maximum height allowed by building regulations.

Malik points to the tower of the fire station opposite the mosque. It is more than three times higher than the minaret. But you will not hear anybody say that they are bothered by that, Malik says, shrugging his shoulders.

He has already given a tour of the unfinished mosque to several hundred interested people. Malik tells school classes, senior citizen groups, police chaplains or anyone who wants to come and visit, something about the history of Islam, shows them the prayer room, which can accommodate up to 200 people, and explains why men and women pray in separate areas.

The Ahmadiyya spokesman would also have liked to welcome Katrin Böhlke, the district mayor of Erfurt-Marbach. In the past, she had stated that a “perceived majority” in Marbach was against the construction of the mosque. As a non-partisan local politician, she is supposed to maintain strict neutrality, but it’s hard not to feel attacked by her statement: “We wanted a kindergarten and got a mosque.”

It is true that kindergarten children in the Marbach district were housed in temporary construction containers for several years because the local daycare center had reached its capacity limits. Yet this had nothing to do with the construction of the mosque.

At no point was there any discussion about building a kindergarten on the site of the mosque. This mosque versus kindergarten argument — two things that have zero connection whatsoever — was being played as a clearly political card. Böhlke did not elaborate on her position and declined a request for an interview.

Tabea Schwarzkopf, a Protestant pastor in Erfurt-Marbach, is more forthcoming. Over tea and cookies, she approaches the subject of the dispute with carefully considered words — she asks that some of the conversation be kept off the record.

An expression of diversity

Every Monday for more than three years, a handful of Christian faithfuls with hymn books held a service in front of the open space where the mosque now stands: a clear provocation. They sang Christian songs, lit candles and brought wooden crosses.

“When people act like this, they are taking advantage of Christian values and symbols,” Schwarzkopf says. She does not think that members of her Marbach Protestant community joined the protest, but she knows how sensitive the topic is: In the past, one member of her church left when she spoke about being tolerant and open-minded towards the building of a mosque.

There are more than 50 churches in Erfurt, plus a new and an old synagogue and a Buddhist temple in an old school. A mosque is an expression of diversity and religious freedom, says Schwarzkopf. But she also has points of criticism, for example on the Ahmadiyya community’s conservative stance on gender equality and women rights. When she once critically remarked, in a radio interview, that she thought it was a shame that women did not have equal rights among the Ahmadiyyas, she received a snappy email from Malik.

The joy is greater than the fear of attacks or insults.

As Malik strolls through the mosque, it is clear how proud he is that believers will soon be gathering here to pray. In the reception hall there are brochures with slogans such as “Love for all — hate for none”, as well as flyers with German flags. “The joy is greater than the fear of attacks or insults,” Malik says.

Mirza Masrur Ahmad, the fifth Caliph of the Ahmadiyya and spiritual leader of the community, is due to travel from London for the opening. A big party with plenty of food is planned. The thought of it makes Malik smile.

Then he goes outside to the two-meter-high fence that separates the mosque from the street in front of it. Malik closes the entrance gate, which is regularly covered in anti-Islam stickers, like a crossed-out minaret and slogans like “We don’t want a mosque in Erfurt.”

To be fair, it’s only remnants of stickers, almost unreadable, faded and overgrown by a climbing plant. It has made its way along the entrance gate without resistance.