Left-Wing Radicals Plunge Berlin Into Darkness—Mayor Declares Terror Crisis

Paul Riverbank, 1/6/2026Radical sabotage plunges Berlin into crisis, exposing vulnerabilities in urban infrastructure and public resilience.

Residents woke up puzzled. Streetlights, usually a dull orange glow even at 6 a.m., were dead. The noise of trams and suburban trains vanished. By midday, social media filled with anxious posts—photos showing not only darkened apartments, but also shops with doors locked and unlit displays. With temperatures sinking well below zero, going without electricity or heat wasn’t just inconvenient, it was dangerous.

Firefighters arrived on the canal bridge just after sunrise, smoke billowing more aggressively than a simple electrical short would cause. Five major power lines, linking a vital plant to much of southeast Berlin, had gone up in flames. Later, authorities discovered a collection of what they described as “incendiary devices”—primitive, but terrifyingly effective.

The culprit didn’t wait long to make itself known. Within hours, a group calling itself the Vulkan Group—a name that barely registered with the public but rang familiar among Berlin security circles—posted a rambling, defiant letter online. “We are cutting off power to those in power,” they wrote, railing against corporate energy giants and hinting at a grander crusade for environmental justice. Still, that manifesto must have felt like a cruel joke to anyone shivering in a dark apartment, their phone battery dying along with any hope of updates.

Tagesspiegel and Politico's estimates put the direct toll at a staggering 45,000 homes and 1,700 businesses—gone dark, just like that. Schools locked their doors; hospital staff scrambled to find enough backup generators. A local bakery, Lichtblick, canceled all orders, dough left to spoil in the powerless cold.

The city’s mayor, Kai Wegner, pulled no punches in his press briefing. “This isn’t just arson or sabotage. It’s terrorism,” he said, voice clipped with frustration and urgency. Outright, he warned that, for all the lofty rhetoric about fighting the energy system, real people were suffering. Even Franziska Giffey, Berlin’s energy senator, refrained from the diplomatic language so common in German politics. She asked aloud—on a popular local podcast—whether such attacks were ideologically motivated, or part of something deeper and more organized.

Repair crews barely paused for coffee, let alone rest. Those who worked on the scene—bundled in heavy jackets, breath steaming in the air—compared notes: usually, fixing this kind of damage would take a month or more. “We’re doing everything we can,” one exhausted supervisor at the site told me, “but this is not just a technical problem. It’s psychological. Nobody feels safe when the lights go out like this.”

By Monday, warming centers sprang up in churches and gyms, each one crowded beyond capacity by families, medical staff, and elderly neighbors. That same day, the city’s transit system ground to a halt; even mobile phone networks stuttered on the edge of redundancy, unable to carry enough signal.

Some Berliners couldn’t help but see the bigger picture. “You know, you do hear about attacks like this in the news, but it always feels far away,” said Henrik, a pensioner from Köpenick, watching the emergency crews from behind yellow tape. “Now you wonder what else is possible.”

Security experts, meanwhile, mulled over public infrastructure’s Achilles’ heel. Jürgen Eicher, a longtime resident and now a commentator on local radio, put it bluntly: “Countries with less friendly intentions—Russia, for instance—are surely watching this unfold, taking notes about which cables matter most.”

It’s not as though German authorities were caught completely unawares. Federal officials had issued warnings about threats to the country’s famously open infrastructure for years, with Berlin a particular point of concern. Yet, after this attack, the national prosecutor’s office took the lead, an unmistakable sign of gravity.

Vulkan Group, for all its sudden notoriety, remains mysterious. Their fingerprint includes previous strikes on the Tesla Gigafactory and scattered pylons, but they operate in shadows and seem to vanish when officials look more closely. No names have surfaced. No suspects. Just manifestos, and miles of downed wire.

Now, Berlin faces unsettling questions. Is public transparency, something Germany prides itself on, unintentionally helping those who wish to do harm? How much should cities shield details of their networks from the public eye? While Senator Giffey mused about withholding technical diagrams and bolstering physical security, a much older debate gained new life: balancing free, open societies with practical defensive steps.

For all the political rhetoric, ideology mattered little to those affected. Johanna Müller, owner of a small corner grocery, summed it up as she handed out cups of cold coffee to neighbors gathered outside her shop: “They talk about saving the world, but who’s going to save us tonight?”

By the time emergency teams restored partial service on Thursday, Berliners greeted the return of power with a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and lingering unease. No one doubts the seriousness of the moment. This attack, for many, is a wake-up call that the comforts of modern life depend on fragile systems, and that those systems have enemies—both seen and unseen.

As Berlin recovers, the conversation won’t just be about patches and repairs. It will be a reckoning with the future: how Europe’s cities square openness with resilience, and how quickly the unthinkable can become routine.

On a biting Saturday morning in southeast Berlin, everyone’s breath fogged—and not just from the cold. What began as a distant, smoky haze along the Teltow Canal quickly became front-page news by lunchtime: power was out, and the cause seemed far more sinister than a typical technical glitch.Residents woke up puzzled. Streetlights, usually a dull orange glow even at 6 a.m., were dead. The noise of trams and suburban trains vanished. By midday, social media filled with anxious posts—photos showing not only darkened apartments, but also shops with doors locked and unlit displays. With temperatures sinking well below zero, going without electricity or heat wasn’t just inconvenient, it was dangerous.Firefighters arrived on the canal bridge just after sunrise, smoke billowing more aggressively than a simple electrical short would cause. Five major power lines, linking a vital plant to much of southeast Berlin, had gone up in flames. Later, authorities discovered a collection of what they described as “incendiary devices”—primitive, but terrifyingly effective.The culprit didn’t wait long to make itself known. Within hours, a group calling itself the Vulkan Group—a name that barely registered with the public but rang familiar among Berlin security circles—posted a rambling, defiant letter online. “We are cutting off power to those in power,” they wrote, railing against corporate energy giants and hinting at a grander crusade for environmental justice. Still, that manifesto must have felt like a cruel joke to anyone shivering in a dark apartment, their phone battery dying along with any hope of updates.Tagesspiegel and Politico's estimates put the direct toll at a staggering 45,000 homes and 1,700 businesses—gone dark, just like that. Schools locked their doors; hospital staff scrambled to find enough backup generators. A local bakery, Lichtblick, canceled all orders, dough left to spoil in the powerless cold.The city’s mayor, Kai Wegner, pulled no punches in his press briefing. “This isn’t just arson or sabotage. It’s terrorism,” he said, voice clipped with frustration and urgency. Outright, he warned that, for all the lofty rhetoric about fighting the energy system, real people were suffering. Even Franziska Giffey, Berlin’s energy senator, refrained from the diplomatic language so common in German politics. She asked aloud—on a popular local podcast—whether such attacks were ideologically motivated, or part of something deeper and more organized.Repair crews barely paused for coffee, let alone rest. Those who worked on the scene—bundled in heavy jackets, breath steaming in the air—compared notes: usually, fixing this kind of damage would take a month or more. “We’re doing everything we can,” one exhausted supervisor at the site told me, “but this is not just a technical problem. It’s psychological. Nobody feels safe when the lights go out like this.”By Monday, warming centers sprang up in churches and gyms, each one crowded beyond capacity by families, medical staff, and elderly neighbors. That same day, the city’s transit system ground to a halt; even mobile phone networks stuttered on the edge of redundancy, unable to carry enough signal.Some Berliners couldn’t help but see the bigger picture. “You know, you do hear about attacks like this in the news, but it always feels far away,” said Henrik, a pensioner from Köpenick, watching the emergency crews from behind yellow tape. “Now you wonder what else is possible.”Security experts, meanwhile, mulled over public infrastructure’s Achilles’ heel. Jürgen Eicher, a longtime resident and now a commentator on local radio, put it bluntly: “Countries with less friendly intentions—Russia, for instance—are surely watching this unfold, taking notes about which cables matter most.”It’s not as though German authorities were caught completely unawares. Federal officials had issued warnings about threats to the country’s famously open infrastructure for years, with Berlin a particular point of concern. Yet, after this attack, the national prosecutor’s office took the lead, an unmistakable sign of gravity.Vulkan Group, for all its sudden notoriety, remains mysterious. Their fingerprint includes previous strikes on the Tesla Gigafactory and scattered pylons, but they operate in shadows and seem to vanish when officials look more closely. No names have surfaced. No suspects. Just manifestos, and miles of downed wire.Now, Berlin faces unsettling questions. Is public transparency, something Germany prides itself on, unintentionally helping those who wish to do harm? How much should cities shield details of their networks from the public eye? While Senator Giffey mused about withholding technical diagrams and bolstering physical security, a much older debate gained new life: balancing free, open societies with practical defensive steps.For all the political rhetoric, ideology mattered little to those affected. Johanna Müller, owner of a small corner grocery, summed it up as she handed out cups of cold coffee to neighbors gathered outside her shop: “They talk about saving the world, but who’s going to save us tonight?”By the time emergency teams restored partial service on Thursday, Berliners greeted the return of power with a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and lingering unease. No one doubts the seriousness of the moment. This attack, for many, is a wake-up call that the comforts of modern life depend on fragile systems, and that those systems have enemies—both seen and unseen.As Berlin recovers, the conversation won’t just be about patches and repairs. It will be a reckoning with the future: how Europe’s cities square openness with resilience, and how quickly the unthinkable can become routine.