Online marketer David Becker and his wife chose not to vaccinate against COVID-19. And even after they were both diagnosed with the disease, from which they have since recovered, they say they do not regret their decision.

Mr. Becker, who has attended three demonstrations for the preservation of civil rights, characterizes the German government’s vaccine-approval process as hasty, for a technology that’s unproven. And he says the governmental pressure to vaccinate is unfair. “I find it absolutely cruel for politicians to put so much pressure on unvaccinated people.”

He is part of small but vocal minority in Germany. But unlike his fellow vaccine skeptics in the United States, he is not giving away where where he sits on the political spectrum by his position. He says that prior to the pandemic, he wasn’t interested in politics.

The dividing lines between Americans who vaccinate and those who do not coincide rather neatly with polarized political lines. But Germany’s divide does not. Here, the factors that correlate with vaccine doubts are complex. They include the country’s long-standing preference for naturopathic remedies and an anti-authoritarian bent in society stemming from the post-Nazi era.

Overall, a distrust of or discomfort with strong authorities, such as government or scientific institutions, is a common narrative. And the factors in Germany may help explain vaccine hesitancy in a way that moves beyond politics and toward more fundamental causes, regardless of national context.

“We are all very frustrated that Germany’s only got about 70% vaccinated,” says Jochen Mayerl, a sociologist at the Chemnitz University of Technology. “It’s not the super lowest in Europe, but it’s not good. As sociologists we talk about behavioral models: Who has a vaccination and intention, and who doesn’t? Overall [the research] shows there’s a norm and a social desirability to vaccinate, and that’s good news.”

Cultural correlations with vaccine doubts

Germany’s vaccination rate, though high compared with the U.S., lags many of its neighbors in Western Europe, even as the continent now enters an intense fourth COVID-19 wave with the omicron variant looming. The country is beginning to impose new restrictions on public life for unvaccinated people and is considering mandatory vaccination starting in 2022.

There’s a clear link between social or government distrust and lower vaccination rates, say experts. A map of Germany shows clear trends: the further north and west toward the border with France, the Netherlands, and Belgium, the higher the vaccination rates – which currently peak at about 84% in the cultural hub of Bremen. Go south and east toward Poland, the Czech Republic, and Austria, and vaccination rates dip as low as 61%.

Thilo Schmuelgen/Reuters

An employee of a Christmas market next to Cologne Cathedral checks whether visitors are vaccinated against or have recovered from COVID-19, in Cologne, Germany, Dec. 1, 2021.

“The higher the political trust, the higher the vaccination rate, and then you can take it the other way around with low political trust,” says Dr. Mayerl.

That distrust, or disenfranchisement, can manifest differently. The rise of populism has been fueled by groups suffering from a feeling of social decline or marginalization, and in Germany, far-right strongholds are in the East and South.

“You have to look at the East. All people had to be vaccinated,” says Dr. Mayerl, referencing the policies of authoritarian socialism in former East Germany. “And today these people no longer want to be offered an authoritarian government saying, ‘You must do this.’ They want to be free. They never want to be in this situation again.”

Migrants are another group that show lower vaccine uptake, and Germany has roughly 14% foreign-born migrants, a higher proportion than its neighbors to the west, such as France.

Then there’s a long-held comfort with homeopathy, which was developed by a German practitioner during the 18th century. Today, roughly half of Germans have reported using homeopathic remedies, which are sold in every corner pharmacy. Homeopathy is also accepted and paid for by German health insurance plans.

“Germany’s southern regions show a stronger tendency toward alternative medicine,” says Joost Van Loon, a sociologist at the Catholic University of Eichstätt-Ingolstadt. “In the South, there is a prevailing skepticism against science and institutionalized science.”

Going a bit further, sociologists speak of a strong “contra culture” underlying German society. And that’s led some populations to see scientific authority as an extension of authoritarian politics, says Dr. Van Loon.

A mandatory vaccine – which the new coalition government seems ready to support – would be seen as a strike at the heart of human dignity, a concept that’s deeply rooted in German society, says Dr. Van Loon.

Martin Meissner/AP

A public order officer gives directions at the Christmas market in Dortmund, Germany, Dec. 1, 2021. While many Christmas markets have been closed in Germany due to the pandemic, the market in Dortmund has stayed open but only allows people who are vaccinated or have recovered from COVID-19 to attend.

Overall, trends in vaccine uptake in Germany mirror a complex situation in which “party divisions play a rather small role,” says Malte Thiessen, historian at the LWL Institute for Westphalian Regional History.

“For example, in debates about vaccinations, conservatives can have both positions. Within liberal parties there is support for the right to self-determination, while on the other hand, there are economic and progressive liberals who view mandatory vaccinations as a prop for the national economy.”

“I’m busy analyzing my own standpoint”

Discussions with those who choose not to vaccinate reveal themes of distrust, whether of doctors, government, health authorities, or even the vaccine approval process itself. 

Thorsten Otto, an engineer who lives in Hamburg, cites poor experiences with doctors and his employee liability insurance company as a reason not to vaccinate. He’s also skeptical about politicians, pointing out that Germany’s health authority under Chancellor Angela Merkel ordered masks from a company directly connected with the health minister.

Sarah Schumacher, an economist who lives in Stuttgart, says she’s never attended an anti-vaccination demonstration and would never tell anyone not to get vaccinated. She simply believes that “science learns through trial and error,” and there hasn’t been enough time to test this vaccine. She hasn’t gotten vaccinated yet, though she’s inching closer.

“I’m busy analyzing my own standpoint,” says Ms. Schumacher, “and slowly, the real dangers of an infection are outweighing the possible dangers of vaccination side effects.”

Thomas Ehrhorn, a local chairman of the right-wing party Alternative for Germany, supports that freedom to choose. “Every person has to be allowed to do their own risk assessment. There has to be freedom of opinion, and no one who chooses not to get vaccinated should be at a disadvantage.”

As Germany weighs further restrictions on unvaccinated people, including mandatory vaccinations, these voices are likely to get more fiery.

“From a historical perspective, mandatory vaccination not only mobilizes vaccination enemies, but also skeptics and those who are still unsure,” says Dr. Thiessen, the historian. “This group is a minority, so the division of society would still be manageable. But it is unrealistic to assume that a mandatory vaccination would solve all problems.”

Pavel Golovkin/AP

Traditional Russian wooden dolls of Presidents Vladimir Putin and Joe Biden are on sale at a souvenir store in Moscow, Dec. 6, 2021. After their virtual summit Tuesday, the two leaders said they had agreed to continue talks.

The immediate aim of U.S. President Joe Biden’s video summit with Russia’s Vladimir Putin on Tuesday was clear: to deter him from using the military force he is amassing on the border with Ukraine to invade that formerly Soviet, now pro-Western, state.

It was also part of a broader effort to address a more fundamental, long-term challenge.

The goal: to rebuild a framework of diplomatic stability around great power rivalries, the kind of mutually understood buffers that prevented the U.S.-Soviet Cold War from heating up. “Guardrails” is the word U.S. national security adviser Jake Sullivan has used in recent months.

Britain’s top soldier, Gen. Nick Carter, warned last month as he retired that in the absence of Cold War-era “diplomatic tools and mechanisms,” he saw an unprecedented risk of accidental war with Russia.

The immediate focus is on Russian troops. But the United States and its allies are also deeply concerned about a similar slow-burn crisis with China over the future of the island democracy of Taiwan, which Chinese leader Xi Jinping has vowed eventually to “reunite” with the mainland, by force if necessary.

The Biden administration’s stability project is not going to be easy.

That’s in part because the deepening chill in international relations has reduced the breadth of trusted channels of communication, or formal negotiation, with both Moscow and Beijing.

But there’s a deeper problem. World politics have become more unstable since the collapse of the Soviet Union, a trend accelerated by the presidential election of Donald Trump in the U.S. and the rise of populist strongmen in a number of other countries.

Western Cold War-era alliances have been loosening. That trend, too, was fueled by Mr. Trump’s “America First” approach to international relations. Mr. Biden’s scant consultation with allies over the military withdrawal from Afghanistan also left them wondering whether they can rely on the kind of U.S. engagement that marked the Cold War years.

The Ukraine crisis is now providing a test of whether this system of new guardrails – and a broader framework of stability – is feasible.

Significantly, Mr. Biden and his top officials spent weeks ahead of the video call consulting with European allies on a common approach. So the stern message he delivered to Mr. Putin – that there will be major economic and strategic costs should he invade – came with the allies also on board.

The wider stability agenda was also evident. The very fact of the summit contributed to it: The virtual meeting gave Mr. Putin a high-profile place on the geopolitical stage, something he feels Washington has been denying him, especially now that China has emerged as its primary competitor.

Mr. Putin’s agenda may be starkly different from Washington’s, but both sides’ readout of the meeting spoke of follow-up talks.

U.S. officials seem to hope that negotiations on a wide range of issues, from Ukraine to cyberwarfare, will build greater stability in U.S.-Russia relations. And that the clear, allied message on the scale and range of sanctions being readied will provide a guardrail against an invasion.

Susan Walsh/AP/File

President Joe Biden meeting virtually with Chinese leader Xi Jinping from the White House in Washington, Nov. 15, 2021. Mr. Biden proposed "strategic stability" talks to restore some predictability to U.S.-China relations.

But what of China? Stabilizing relations there could prove even tougher.

Step one – putting in place a “guardrail” on Taiwan – is underway. U.S. Secretary of State Antony Blinken has publicly cautioned China that it would be making a “serious mistake” if it used force. And last week, former Prime Minister Abe Shinzo of Japan, a key U.S. ally, said a Chinese invasion of Taiwan would also be a “Japan crisis, and therefore for the Japan-U.S. alliance.”

Yet American officials would like to erect firmer guardrails, and inject much greater stability, as China expands and modernizes its military. Satellite photos show that Beijing is building new missile silos as it abandons its longtime doctrine of “minimum deterrence.” And China recently tested a hypersonic missile that could evade detection or interception by U.S. space-based defenses.

The Cold War model involved U.S.-Soviet talks on high-tech weaponry, which helped reduce the danger of miscalculation on either side. That’s something that Washington would like to emulate in the Chinese context, as Mr. Biden suggested in a video call with Mr. Xi last month when he proposed “strategic stability” talks.

Still, substantive negotiations don’t seem likely soon.

It took a bout of nuclear brinkmanship – the 1962 Cuban missile crisis – to prod Washington and Moscow into installing a nuclear hotline to avert further such near-catastrophes.

One indication of how far the U.S. and China have still to go toward strategic stability? There is no such nuclear hotline to Beijing.

When Lalela Mswane glided across a Cape Town stage in a red satin ball gown at the finals of the Miss South Africa pageant in October, she moved with the poise of someone who commanded her country’s attention. 

But in the days after the 24-year-old law student and model was crowned, that gaze took on a sharp edge.

Pro-Palestine activists began demanding she boycott the Dec. 12 Miss Universe pageant because it will be held in Israel. In mid-November, the South African government withdrew its support for Ms. Mswane’s entry, so she will compete without her country’s backing.

“The atrocities committed by Israel against Palestinians are well documented and Government, as the legitimate representative of the people of South Africa, cannot in good conscience associate itself with such,” wrote the Department of Sports, Arts, and Culture in a statement. The pageant organizers, meanwhile, soldiered on, stating that Ms. Mswane “would not be bullied” into boycotting the pageant. (The Miss South Africa organization and Ms. Mswane did not respond to requests for comments for this story.)

The Miss Universe competition may seem an unusual place for a government to stake a major geopolitical stand. But in South Africa, activists say the anti-apartheid movement taught them that the struggle against injustice takes place everywhere, from parliamentary debates and mass marches to boycotts of sports games, grapefruits, and yes, even the stage of a beauty pageant.  

“It was not our wisdom and strength as South Africans that ultimately delivered us from apartheid – it was the support we had from the international community that backed us up,” says Duduzile Mahlangu-Masango, a board member of Africa4Palestine, formerly known as the Boycott Divestment Sanctions (BDS) movement, which advocates in support of Palestinian rights in South Africa. “We learned then that when you speak the big language of politics, you don’t bring everyone along. But when you talk about things ordinary people care about, you bring the issue closer to them.”

For those like Ms. Mahlangu-Masango, that kind of activism has a long history. For decades, boycotts and cultural isolation were a major weapon in the war against apartheid. 

In the 1960s and ‘70s, activists fought to have South Africa barred from major sporting events like the Olympics and World Cup, and advocated for Europeans and Americans to stop buying South African fruit and cigarettes. The liberation movement asked international musicians to boycott South Africa.

In 1976, after a massacre of schoolchildren in Soweto, near Johannesburg, turned the world’s attention to South Africa’s atrocities, nine countries announced they would boycott the Miss World pageant for allowing South Africa to participate. A second boycott followed the next year, forcing the organizers to ban South Africa. 

“These calls to isolate South Africa culturally were very important” because they reinforced the country’s exclusion from the global community, says Ottilia Maunganidze, head of special projects at the Institute for Security Studies, a South African think tank.

Fast forward 45 years and activists are using the same arsenal of tools to try to isolate Israel, she says.

The calls for Ms. Mswane to boycott Miss Universe started almost as soon as the crown was placed on her head in mid-October. Activists staged a protest at the Miss South Africa offices in Johannesburg, and the hashtag #NotMyMissSA began trending on social media. Its supporters, including Nelson Mandela’s grandson, Zwelivelile “Mandla” Mandela, called on the beauty queen to draw parallels between Israel’s occupation of Palestinian lands and the dispossession and violence committed against Black South Africans under apartheid.

Siphiwe Sibeko/Reuters

Zwelivelile Mandela, Nelson Mandela's eldest grandson, speaks during a protest calling for Lalela Mswane to withdraw from the Miss Universe pageant, outside the Miss South Africa headquarters in Johannesburg, Nov. 19, 2021. Many South Africans draw parallels between their own history of apartheid and Israeli treatment of Palestinians.

“We must persist in isolating Apartheid Israel in the same way that we isolated Apartheid South Africa,” wrote Mr. Mandela on Instagram. 

For many former anti-apartheid activists, including those now in government here, the question of Israel and Palestine is a particularly evocative one because it calls up vivid memories of their own history.

“The first time I set foot in Palestine, it was like setting foot into the world I grew up in,” says Ms. Mahlangu-Masango, who was raised during the dying years of apartheid in the 1970s and ‘80s. “I really cannot understand a South African who chooses to forget the history of where we come from.”

For supporters of Ms. Mswane, however, the anger at her misses the mark.

“Lalela will be a role model to young women – not just across the country, but across the African continent,” wrote Stephanie Weil, CEO of the Miss South Africa organization, in a statement on Instagram. “Anyone who wants to rob Lalela of her moment in the spotlight is unkind and short-sighted.” Ms. Mswane herself has not spoken publicly about the controversy over her competing. 

Meanwhile, former Greek delegate Rafaela Plastira announced on social media in November that she would boycott the competition in support of Palestinians. (Several days later, the organization in charge of Miss Greece distanced themselves from Ms. Plastira and stated that she was not their delegate.) 

“Humanity ABOVE beauty pageants!” she wrote in an Instagram post. Greece is sending Sofia Arapogianni to Israel as the country’s delegate.

“There have been arguments that you shouldn’t politicize a beauty pageant,” says Ms. Maunganidze of the Institute for Security Studies. “But the very act of hosting it in Israel is an act of politicization. For many people, it legitimizes what Israel is doing in Palestine. Or at the very least, it says, let life go on.”

An earlier version of this story omitted to mention controversy that has emerged about the candidacy of Greek beauty queen Rafaela Plastira. 

Saudi Press Agency via Reuters

Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman is received by Qatar's Emir Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad al-Thani, in Doha, Qatar, Dec. 8.

Less than two months ago, the United States was forced to end its combat role in Afghanistan with a bang. Taliban forces suddenly took power Aug. 15 with scenes of Afghans clinging to fast-departing U.S. planes. On Thursday, the U.S. ended another overseas combat role, this time in Iraq. Only it was with a whimper, not a bang. A tweet from an Iraqi official announced a well-planned transition of some 2,500 American troops from fighting remnants of Islamic State to simply training and advising Iraqi forces.

The quiet step-down of U.S. involvement in Iraq reflects a possible new reality in the Middle East. The region has lately seen a flurry of trust-building diplomacy between longtime rivals, driven in part by the U.S. – long the region’s security umbrella – focusing more on China.

Troubles still remain – a war in Yemen, Lebanon near economic collapse, and Israel threatened by Iran – but many old contours of acrimony are shifting.

For the first time in nearly two years, the de facto leader of Saudi Arabia, Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, is traveling the region. His first stop, Oman, is most telling. The sultanate has played a mediating role in the Middle East between Arab states and Iran. But he is also reknitting ties in the Gulf after ending a long feud with Qatar earlier this year.

His travels came as another Arab Gulf state, the United Arab Emirates, sent a top security official to Iran to patch up strained ties. In November, UAE leader Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed Al Nahyan visited another regional power, Turkey, the first such visit in nine years.

These pauses in enmity between Mideast states may not lead to a permanent peace. But leaders feel the pressure from restive youth, drought, and pandemic-struck economies. Radical groups like the Muslim Brotherhood are less powerful.

Iraq itself has found some civic unity based on a weariness with conflict and from protests in 2019 that helped revive its democracy. Like Oman, it is now a regional mediator and a seeker of peace. With little fanfare, Iraq let go of a role for U.S. combat forces. The small steps toward peace sometimes receive the least attention.