German Chancellor Friedrich Merz has used the German state to pursue around 300 criminal investigations against people accused of insulting him, and his Chancellery spent months trying to keep the public from finding out which prosecutors were handling the cases. That wall has now come down.
The Higher Administrative Court of Berlin-Brandenburg has ordered the Bundeskanzleramt to identify every prosecutor’s office running a Merz-insult investigation, along with the file number for each one.
The ruling, which rejected the Chancellery’s appeal against an earlier decision of the Berlin Administrative Court, came after a legal challenge by Berlin daily Der Tagesspiegel. Until the judgment, roughly 300 criminal proceedings over alleged slights against the sitting head of government had been shielded from any journalistic scrutiny.
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The legal hook for all of it is Section 188 of Germany’s criminal code, a special provision that gives people in political life reinforced protection against insult. The official English translation of the statute states that anyone who “insults a person who exercises a political office in relation to their office or in connection with their office shall be punished with imprisonment from three months to five years.”
A politician gets to sit at the center of a prosecution aimed at a citizen who said something unpleasant about them, and the punishment on the table is years in prison.
How cases enter the pipeline is itself revealing. Citizens are encouraged by NGOs and state-run reporting portals to flag supposed insults, sometimes anonymously.
Those reports travel to the Federal Criminal Police Office, which routes them to the relevant regional prosecutor’s office. The targeted politician is then notified and decides whether to file a formal criminal complaint or whether to leave the prosecution to run without objection. The Chancellery alone receives between 20 and 30 such files every month.
Merz has said he does not sign complaints himself, but also does not block the prosecutions that have been opened in his name. Whether that account holds up against the actual paperwork is precisely what the Chancellery was trying to prevent anyone from checking.
The Chancellery’s argument in court was that no heightened public interest justified handing the information over, and that merely naming the prosecutor’s offices and file numbers could violate the rights of accused individuals. The court did not accept it. The judges held that the Chancellor’s distinctive role in these proceedings made disclosure necessary, and that neither jurisdictional objections nor the absence of urgency stood in the way.
The scale alone deserves attention. A head of government who has triggered roughly 300 criminal investigations over things people said about him is using the machinery of the state against ordinary speech at a volume that does not look like an occasional recourse to legal remedy. It looks like a policy. And the instinct, once the numbers started circulating, was to hide the details rather than defend them.
The chilling effect of a regime like this does not depend on convictions. It depends on the knowledge that a critical Facebook post, a rude placard, or a sharp comment can summon the Bundeskriminalamt, a prosecutor, and potentially a house search. A Stuttgart man who called Merz a “Suffkopf,” roughly a drunkard, saw his home searched after Merz signed a complaint against him.
The lesson lands well beyond the individuals actually charged. Self-censorship becomes the rational response, which is the real product of the law.
Section 188’s defenders describe it as protection for democratic institutions against targeted harassment of officials. The practical architecture of the provision tells a different story.
The category of “insult” is elastic. German courts have struggled for years with where sharp political commentary ends and punishable disrespect begins, and individual judges have reached wildly different conclusions on facts that look almost identical. Into that vagueness steps a provision that hands the sitting Chancellor and his office a direct line to prosecutors considering whether to put a citizen through a criminal process.
The deeper question sits where it has always sat. A democracy that lets its head of government send police to the homes of citizens who call him names has already made a choice about which it values more, the dignity of the office or the tongue of the citizen. The court has forced some sunlight into the process. The provision that makes the process possible in the first place is still waiting for someone to deal with it.
