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Nearly eight decades after the unconditional surrender of Nazi Germany ended the Holocaust’s horrors, a poignant and complex phenomenon is unfolding. A growing number of descendants of Holocaust survivors, primarily from Israel and the United States but also from across the globe, are applying for German citizenship. This trend, which had already been increasing, gained renewed urgency following the Hamas-led attacks on Israel on October 7, 2023. For many, the motivation has shifted from a symbolic reclamation of a lost heritage to a more immediate search for security and stability. However, navigating the path to citizenship often means confronting a labyrinth of bureaucratic hurdles, a reality that individuals like Eliyahu Raful, an Israeli who successfully claimed his German citizenship and now helps others do the same, know all too well.
The statistical rise is unmistakable. In 2021, Germany naturalized 2,485 Israeli citizens; by 2024, that figure had surged to 4,275. This surge is rooted in two key legal provisions. The first, Article 116 of Germany’s Basic Law, has long allowed those stripped of citizenship under Nazi rule—and their descendants—to have it restored. The second, a 2021 amendment known as Section 15 of the Nationality Act, was a watershed. It extended the right to those who were prevented from ever acquiring German citizenship due to Nazi persecution. This opened the door for countless more families, and applications under this new provision now outnumber those under the older law, signaling a profound expansion of Germany’s legal reckoning with its past.
Yet, between this clear legal right and the reality of obtaining a passport lies a significant gap. Eliyahu Raful’s own experience is telling. When he first applied in Berlin, he was erroneously asked how he could get citizenship without speaking German—a requirement that does not apply to descendants of Nazi victims. His application only progressed after moving cities. To bridge this gap for others, he founded Chafetz Chayim, an organization whose name means “one who desires life.” It provides end-to-end support, from archival research to final paperwork. For Raful, working from Berlin is deeply symbolic; it is a city where Jewish life, once nearly erased, now forces a continuous and powerful redefinition of identity and belonging.
The profile of those seeking citizenship has fundamentally shifted since the October 7th attacks. Previously, applicants were often secular, globally mobile Israelis. Now, Raful notes inquiries from ultra-Orthodox communities in Jerusalem, groups he never expected to approach him. In times of profound uncertainty, pragmatism often overrides ideology. This is coupled with a generational change. For older generations, the Holocaust was a direct, searing memory. For many younger applicants, contemporary Germany is viewed less through that historical lens and more as a potential haven offering democratic stability and a future. Felix Klein, Germany’s Commissioner for Jewish Life, views this as an “enormous vote of confidence” from the Jewish community.
This raises a profound emotional question: What does it mean to seek a future in the land of the perpetrators? Raful is careful with his terminology. For him and many he assists, it is not about forgiveness. It is about a hard-earned trust—trust that modern Germany has internalized the lessons of its history and that its legal and democratic institutions can provide genuine security. Commissioner Klein echoes this sentiment, acknowledging he is “deeply moved” but stressing that this trust is fragile and must be earned daily through the unwavering protection of Jewish life, the vigorous prosecution of antisemitism, and a societal refusal to relativize hatred from any quarter.
Despite this symbolic weight, the application process itself remains fraught with practical challenges. The main issue, according to Raful, is not gathering historical evidence—archives like the Arolsen Archives are invaluable—but a crippling lack of transparency and predictability. Applications can languish for years without update, while others move forward more quickly, creating frustration and anxiety. With nearly 18,000 applications pending as of early 2026, authorities cite the sheer volume as the cause, but for applicants, the wait feels at odds with Germany’s historical responsibility. Furthermore, this trend is not isolated to Israel. In the United States, applications have also spiked, driven less by fear of war and more by political unease and a search for stability in a European democracy. For most, the German passport represents a crucial contingency plan, a tangible promise of security. On the anniversary of WWII’s end in Europe, these rising naturalization numbers tell a powerful, ongoing story: one of tragic history, cautious trust, and a search for a secure future in a world that, for many, still feels profoundly uncertain.
