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Baerbock, Barbie and the Lies of Liberal Feminism
When Barbie hit cinemas, reactions were split: post-feminist satire or capitalist self-celebration in pink? At the same time, Annalena Baerbock, Germany's first female Foreign Minister, stood at the centre of a similar tension with her officially "feminist foreign policy". Both figures, the plastic doll and the politician, embody what could be called the aesthetic liberalism of feminism: the shine of representation without the substance of transformation.
Barbie is pure aesthetics of possibility: doctor, astronaut, president - everything is possible. Yet these roles often amount to little more than an appearance of engagement with activities, without offering substantive ways to spark real interest or avenues for girls to pursue them. The underlying message remains that "you could look pretty doing x", seducing with spectacle rather than meaningfully engaging with genuine pathways towards those futures. Similarly, Baerbock's feminist foreign policy foregrounds the idea that power can be oriented toward feminist interests, suggesting that this alignment alone constitutes a form of progress. But appearances are deceptive; the aesthetic form of the Foreign Minister remains embedded in the same logic of arms exports, military investments, and the distortion of truth.
Baerbock's feminist foreign policy becomes particularly visible when it aligns with Germany's geopolitical interests. In the cases of Iran or Afghanistan, she loudly condemns the oppression of women, a narrative that fits neatly into the Western image of authoritarian "enemy" states and Western civilisation. Yet where alliances and strategic interests are involved, the feminist claim often appears surprisingly weak.
A particularly telling example is Gaza. Baerbock repeatedly described the situation there as "hellish," called for access to humanitarian aid, and emphasised the need to alleviate the suffering of women and children. On a rhetorical level, she invokes feminist narratives: the protection of civilians, the particular vulnerability of children in conflict, and humanitarian responsibility. At the same time, however, she avoids explicitly naming the causes of the genocide or openly criticising allies, and legitimises attacks on civilian infrastructure. Her first day as President of the UN General Assembly, Baerbock began with a lie; she claimed never to have said that attacks on civilian infrastructure by Israel could be condoned. Yet in 2024, as Foreign Minister, she stated exactly this in a Bundestag speech. What kind of feminism does this "feminist foreign policy" embody when it is applied selectively, prioritising a politics of destruction over a politics of life?
It becomes clear: feminism here serves as moral language, but it ends where geopolitical realities and alliances begin. Women's rights and civilian protection in Gaza are rhetorically emphasised, yet they have no impact on German policy, neither on arms exports nor on diplomatic positioning. Baerbock's feminism thus becomes an aesthetic gesture. It conveys the sense that the humanitarian dimension is recognised, without resulting in political consequences.
Similarly, Barbie performs feminism in a way that is carefully packaged for consumption, offering the appearance of engagement without requiring real work or reflection from its audience. The film celebrates female ambition and empowerment, yet these achievements exist entirely in the realm of possibility, disconnected from systemic barriers or material change. Its fictional narratives even underline this abstraction: in Barbie Land, Barbies are superior and Kens are inferior, while in the "real" world, the dynamic is simply reversed. This mirroring feels arbitrarily set up, suggesting a neat inversion rather than grappling with the complexity of gendered power relations. Feminism here is aestheticised: it signals progress and invites viewers to feel morally or socially aware, but it does not challenge the structures that produce inequality. By prioritising spectacle, nostalgia, and marketable "girl power" narratives, Barbie turns feminist ideals into a consumable product, giving the impression of participation in the struggle for equality while allowing audiences to remain passive spectators.
Judith Butler's concept of performativity asserts that gender is not something natural or given, but continuously produced through repeated actions, gestures, language, and cultural practices. In this sense, both Annalena Baerbock and Barbie can be read as performative figures: they attempt to expand the definition of female emancipation. But for both Baerbock and Barbie this occurs not through authentic engagement with the real-world implications of feminism, but through the incorporation of femininity into familiar cultural codes of consumption and existing power structures. Feminism is more than making us feel good and the enriching of the lives of only a few women; it challenges our relationships with one another and with the planet, forcing us to ask what kind of world we want to cultivate. Emancipation becomes its own caricature when it is represented aesthetically while structural conditions remain unchanged.
Liberal feminism often centres itself rather than the people it claims to support. Its focus lies on how the movement or its leaders are perceived - as powerful, morally righteous, and progressive - rather than on the tangible changes they produce for marginalised communities. Solidarity, in this framework, becomes a performative image rather than a shared struggle; it emphasises appearances over the actual redistribution of power and suggests progress while structural inequalities remain intact. At the same time, it tells us that we should be satisfied and grateful for what we are given because, at least, some movement exists, even if it remains symbolic. Activism is curated for visibility and applause, prioritising symbolic gestures or public statements over actions that genuinely shift power, especially when those actions are unseen, uncomfortable, or risky. True feminist solidarity requires stepping out of the spotlight, confronting entrenched hierarchies, and taking responsibility in ways that may go unnoticed or provoke conflict, a form of work that challenges the status quo rather than merely validating the self-image of those claiming to lead the movement.
Pop culture and art often serve ideological functions; films like Barbie create the illusion of reflection and participation. They justify figures like Annalena Baerbock - not because they expand our understanding of feminism or political responsibility, but because they perform feminism on our behalf. We experience the feeling of having engaged with the issue while actually consuming passively. Similarly, the presentation of a feminist foreign policy suggests that we can sit back and stop questioning, because we are already "progressive." The culture industry often produces promises whose truth evaporates upon consumption. But if ideological narratives in popular films mirror society, they can also help us confront that mirror and develop further.
Admitting these realities can be difficult. I recognise myself in this. My long-standing belief in liberal feminism was also a belief in myself - that I was part of a generation that had "made it", or is at least "trying their best". In retrospect, this seems superficial and self-centred. When Barbie premiered in 2023, I dismissed the film as superficial, yet I smiled when my brother and mother sent a photo of the two of them in pink sweaters outside the cinema in our family chat. But neither Annalena Baerbock nor Barbie represents the enlightenment or progress of our society. Rather, they reflect our desire for progress, concentrated in figures that help us suppress the contradiction between our ideals and reality. Their function is deceptive, designed to make us passive rather than transform structures, making us satisfied with appearances that mask the persistence of inequality and contradiction.
We are neither emancipated nor enlightened as long as decisions made in our names destroy innocent lives, while we comfort ourselves with symbolic figures that suggest morality and progress. Liberal feminism is the perfect commodity because it does not hurt. It demands no redistribution, no rupture with capitalist or geopolitical structures. It shines, motivates, and soothes the conscience. Yet true emancipation is uncomfortable and conflictual. It requires that we engage in the process of becoming and self-reflection, and that we change conditions, not just images. I took a long time to realise this. But today I am convinced: as long as we are satisfied with Baerbock and Barbie, feminism remains an aesthetic simulation - pleasing to the eye, easy to sell, yet incapable of truly changing the world for the better.
The Work of Memory Is Not Done
In Germany, remembrance is not simply a moral obligation. It is our identity. From the earliest days of my schooling, the imperative was clear: Vergangenheitsbewältigung - coming to terms and coping with our past - is not only a civic duty, it is the foundation of postwar Germany. The Holocaust was not presented to us as a historical atrocity to be studied and learnt from. It was something more intimate, something closer to theological: the centrepiece of modern Germany's soul. There is nothing inherently wrong with that, but as a framework for understanding and action, it is incomplete.
To be German means to carry guilt. But not just any guilt - a special guilt, one that elevates us above our history by acknowledging it more fully than any other nation ever has acknowledged their own guilt. It is the awareness of our guilt that made us good again. It made us trustworthy and, over time, became a source of complacency and pride.
Philosopher Hans-Georg Moeller has described this phenomenon as guilt pride: a moral posture that derives self-worth not in spite of past crimes, but because of them. In this view, Germans are not only guilty of perpetrating one of the most horrifying genocides in human history - we are also, uniquely, the ones who have taken responsibility for it. Other nations forget, whitewash, minimize, deny. But we remember. We admit. We atone. And we enjoy being seen feeling guilty. In that atonement, we become superior - not morally broken, but morally reborn.
There is something seductive about this story. It flatters us. It allows us to believe that we have not only processed our past, but transcended it. That we have turned shame into strength. That we have purified our identity through the act of remembrance.
But what does reckoning actually mean? Is it enough to remember? To apologize? To pay? To ritualize? At what point does remembrance harden into performance? And who decides which pasts are worthy of memory?
I've become increasingly troubled by the ways in which Germany's Erinnerungskultur - its culture of remembrance - has become not a path to moral clarity, but a structure of moral branding. It is no longer true to the good intentions that are at its foundations. It has evolved into a public performance of self-awareness, designed to inoculate against future atrocities while paradoxically making us complicit in an ongoing genocide.
Since October 7th, the German state has undertaken a sweeping crackdown on pro-Palestinian speech. Demonstrations have been banned in major cities. Protest was not wanted, even if peaceful, and activists have been detained, surveilled, and publicly vilified. Entire art exhibitions have been cancelled because of an artist's political stance. Professors and journalists have been fired or threatened with job loss for attending protests, signing petitions or making social media posts. Even Jewish voices critical of Israeli policy have found themselves deplatformed, their Judaism questioned, their legitimacy revoked.
In the name of fighting antisemitism, Germany is actively suppressing dissent - often in ways that directly contradict its own professed liberal values, such as that of free speech. And it does so with astonishing moral certainty, under the banner of its "historical responsibility."
But historical responsibility is not a blank check. Nor is it a license to instrumentalize the memory of the Holocaust to justify the silencing of other suffering. The moral absolutism of German memory politics has become so rigid that it cannot accommodate the moral ambiguity of the present. In the official narrative, the lesson of the Holocaust is: never again to the Jews, when it should be never again to anyone.
It's hard to reconcile this stated moral clarity with the cold political realities. Germany sends weapons to Israel that are used to bomb civilians in Gaza, and then attempts to buy itself free by sending humanitarian aid to the very people it helped immiserate. This is not moral complexity - it is moral duplicity.
It's difficult to justify why ceasefire demonstrators are met with riot gear. And when Friedrich Merz says that Benjamin Netanyahu would not be arrested if he visited Germany - despite a warrant from the International Criminal Court - we must ask: what happened to the international legal system we helped build in the name of never again? Have we really internalized the lessons of history, or just found ways to selectively enforce them?
Germany likes to say it has learned from the past. But what it has mostly learned is how to perform that learning. It rewards those who stay within the script when we should be working on expanding it.
To question this moral framework is not to deny the atrociousness of the Shoah. It is to ask whether a memory culture that claims universality while acting parochially is truly a memory culture at all - or merely a nationalist ideology in disguise.
I come from a family embedded in German political history. My great-grandfather, Konrad Adenauer, was the first chancellor of the Federal Republic. He was instrumental in laying the groundwork for postwar democracy, rebuilding the West German state from the ruins of National Socialism, and forging its ties to the Western alliance. He also helped to enshrine the centrality of Holocaust memory in the national psyche.
Central to this reckoning has been the assertion of the Holocaust's uniqueness. However, scholars like Omri Boehm and Norman Finkelstein argue that this emphasis on its singularity has been strategically employed to justify both Israeli and German national identity, rather than emerging from genuine historical debate. In this sense, German national identity became aligned with Zionism - an inherently racist ideology.
In his book The Holocaust Industry, Norman Finkelstein argues that the claim of the uniqueness of the Holocaust has often been used to shield Israel from criticism and to justify actions that might otherwise be called out for violating human rights. If we truly care about justice and human betterment, we shouldn't treat the Holocaust as beyond comparison. According to him, "do not compare" is the mantra of moral blackmailers.
What would it mean to practice remembrance without turning it into a brand? What would it mean to centre solidarity over self-congratulation?
Today's Germany is no longer the homogenous, postwar republic of the 1950s. It is a multicultural, multiethnic society shaped by migration and displacement. Millions of its current residents have no direct family link to the crimes of the Nazi regime. And yet they are expected to internalize a culture of remembrance that neither speaks to their histories nor makes room for their pain.
At the same time, Germany's colonial past remains largely ignored. The Herero and Nama genocide in Namibia, perpetrated by the German Empire in the early 1900s, is barely acknowledged in school curricula. The plunder of cultural heritage remains largely unreturned. Structural racism persists across housing, employment, and policing. But none of this fits into the script of national guilt pride. In fact, the very structure of Erinnerungskultur does not include these other pasts, because we have such a narrow definition of what should be remembered and how.
So, what would a different culture of remembrance look like?
It would be expansive, not exclusive. It would mean refusing to focus solely on one part of history and ignoring another. It would mean honoring the Shoah without turning it into a moral monopoly. It would mean treating the past not as sacred branding, but as a mandate for present justice. It would treat history not as a national inheritance but as a shared and contested terrain.
It would mean arresting leaders with international arrest warrants on their name, regardless of which side they're on. It would mean choosing international law over geopolitical convenience. It would mean being strong enough to admit when the old moral coordinates are no longer sufficient. It would stop weaponizing the past to police the present. It would distinguish between real antisemitism and criticism of state policy. It would stop silencing Jewish, Arab, and German voices in the name of protecting Jewish life - especially when those voices are calling for justice, not erasure.
It would understand that memory is not a performance, but a practice - an ongoing, often uncomfortable, process of reckoning with power.
And it would make room for contradiction - for complexity - for dissent. It would understand that true remembrance does not mean conformity. It means struggle.
Germany likes to say it has "learned the lessons" of its past. But memory is not a test you pass once and forget. It is a living, breathing process - one that must be reopened again and again.
The work of memory is not done. In many ways, it has only just begun.
What Kind of Climate Activism Changes the System?
I went to my first ever Fridays for Future protest in early 2019; everything was new and it felt very exciting to be a part of something bigger, striving for an admirable cause. So I decided to engage more and more, protesting almost every Friday and running one of the social media accounts of the group in my hometown, Düsseldorf. My motivation at the time was not very thought through: I simply thought it was an important issue to address and this seemed like the most logical and obvious way of doing so. With time, my thoughts and opinions evolved as I moved to Maastricht and my activism started to show itself in various different forms. First, I joined a student-led sustainability group that aimed to incorporate climate activism into our curriculum (at a school comprised of students from 100+ nationalities). Then, I was part of a conference on intersectional environmentalism, working with internationally renowned activists such as Isaias Hernandes (@queerbrownvegan), as well as working at a local, sustainability-focused food cooperative to gain some more practical insights. Diversifying my forms of activism made me start to realize how interconnected the climate crisis is with so many fundamental systems in our day-to-day lives, and this involvement made me rethink and want to reshape my own approach towards climate activism.
Starting at LUC this August, I was set on resuming my 'activism' within the streets, so naturally, I decided to join the climate protest in Utrecht a few weeks ago. Sitting on the train surrounded by excited chatter and "The Earth shouldn't be as hot as Harry Styles" posters I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. But why? We were all on our way to protest for the same cause after all. I was on my way to hold up my little sign saying "The wrong Amazon is burning", scream a few slogans, pose for a few pictures, and feel like I did my part for the climate. I don't mean to sound cynical with any of this - my own experience with 'activism' has shown me that the last thing the movement needs is more people within it criticizing each other's wholehearted approaches towards the topic - but being at that march, eating my vegan sandwich while walking around in my Nike shoes, I couldn't help but feel totally hopeless, not knowing where to start in attempting to change the toxic system we're bound to.
As environmental studies professor Matthew Schneider-Mayerson said, "We need to recognize that environmental destruction isn't an unfortunate byproduct of capitalism, but an inevitable result of a system that maximizes economic activity at all costs". When climate activism went mainstream, people began to disregard where the deeper causes of this issue stem from - capitalism, colonialism, and extractivism. Like any other popular movement or trend, climate activism has been made into a palatable cause, not addressing the rotten foundation our society is built upon which in turn purposely restricts our ways of thinking about these types of issues.
Although climate change might impact all of us, the reality is that people of color and other marginalized groups will disproportionately bear the effects of it; yet the people affected the most tend to be represented the least when it comes to climate and environmental justice movements. Theorist Bell Hooks coined the term white supremacist capitalist patriarchy - she talks about "interlocking systems of oppression" that hold minority groups back. These systems are all interconnected; if we are to effectively fight one of these systems that act as causes of our current climate crisis, we have to address these issues collectively. According to the Founder and CEO of "All Aces" diversity consulting firm, Dr. Atyia Martin, there are two main factors of privilege: time and relationships. "Institutions in the way they are run and the systems we keep talking about, they are the things that are broken, not the people." However, people with more privilege have the relationships and time to obtain what they need from those systems, while the less fortunate do not. Thus, the people most affected by the flaws of our systems have the least resources to attempt to improve them. Unfortunately, too often climate or environmental justice movements get lost in smaller details of the issue such as plastic straws, hence losing track of the bigger picture that would actually bring about change for those people that are most affected.
But does all of this even matter in the end? When it comes to activism, does it matter what exactly people are focusing on or what their specific intentions are? Maybe the flip side of this is that there's power in numbers - the more people on the streets, the bigger the disruption, the louder the movement, the more coverage it demands. Nevertheless, I can't help but ask myself: is the message getting lost within H&M "Save the Bees" shirts, meme posters, and companies capitalizing off of the cause by taking performative steps to appease the shallow mainstream? Is this the first step towards change or the loss of an opportunity for real change?
I have yet to come to an answer regarding this question but I think that if you boil the movement down, the most important things are result and intention. Although I recognize that the people protesting have good intentions and that there is power in numbers, participating in that kind of change makes me feel overwhelmed. That is why I prefer to attempt to grapple with climate-related issues in different forms. At the end of the day, we're all campaigning to corner the corporations and governments with the goal of enacting change, and what better way to do it than attacking from all sides?