La Belle France, Not So Belle Anymore - The Africanization Of The Sun King

Muhammed Abubakar grew up in northern Mali near Timbuktu.  His parents had been goatherders and his grandparents and great-grandparents camel drivers along the salt route from Mopti to Algiers.  The sedentary life - tending a few goats, the small plot of millet and the garden - was a far cry from the old days.  Mohammed loved to sit around the fire and listen to the tales of the desert, the starlit nights, the groaning of the camels, the creak of the harnesses holding the pillars of salt, men's talk about the days of old. 

That was all that was left of the desert life, the Muslim life, the pure and simple life of Africa. Now those distant days were only memories fictionalized over time and telling, songs of the Arabian Nights, nighttime mysteries and magic. 

His family was poor, almost destitute as the rains failed yet again, the desert encroached further south, the crops produced little, and the animals died of thirst and hunger.  Muhammed's father prayed to Allah to relieve them of their burden, but year after year, life became harder and more unbearable. 

'It is time for you to cross the sea', his father said, speaking in ancient Koranic language. 'Only there is hope'; and so it was that Muhammed became one of the migrants crossing the Mediterranean in open boats for Europe, foundering, lost, and finally stumbling on foreign shores. 

The journey to France was even more difficult, stowed away in the back of long-haul lorries, paying traffickers with his last euros, but finally arriving in Paris, in the northern suburbs where most of his people had gone and which were now more African than French - open markets, Bambara spoken everywhere, Friday prayers at the mosque, and unemployment.  Where to find work when everyone was unemployed, living off the welfare of the state, barely enough to keep body and soul together?

'Join us', said Babucar Diallo, his neighbor in the housing estate. 'There is nothing for us here', and so it was that Muhammed joined Diallo and his band of restive young men with nothing but hostility for their adopted country, a white, privileged redoubt of racists and Islamophobes.  The French speak of inclusion and 'We are all French' racial solidarity but want nothing of the sort. Black men are still treated like slaves, tribal savages only recently come out of the forest. 

'But now we are millions', Diallo said. 'Just look around'.  At the Gare du Nord, the central Parisian terminus for trains coming from the northern suburbs, there were only black faces and a Tower of Babel of Bambara, Lingala, Wolof, Yoruba, and Soninke. 

But when they walked around the 7th and 16th Arrondissements, there were nothing but white faces, high-toned, wealthy, privileged white people who looked the other way when they passed. 'This is the enemy', said Diallo to his new friend, 'and they must suffer'.  

'I am fine here', Muhammed wrote to his family in Mali, but he was not.  He lived with ten others in one room in the Victor Hugo estates, a high-rise slum in Chateau Rouge, had little to eat, few clothes to wear for the approaching winter, and little to do. 'We will take what is ours', said Diallo. 

And so it was that Muhammed after only six months in Paris had become desperate, radicalized, frustrated and hateful.  Diallo was a charismatic leader and was the chief of a group of over a hundred young African men who were faithful to him, to Islam, and to restitution.  It was their mission to strike fear into the hearts of the French, to take what was theirs, and to carry on the crusade for an Islamic caliphate. 

'There is no morality within immorality' said the Imam of the Northern Jama Masjid, the central mosque of Chateau Rouge, 'but the most moral are the ones who defy immorality.  It is our duty to Allah to extirpate and expunge the devil of the Christian infidel.'

'Our poverty is his doing', the Imam went on.  'He enslaved us, brutalized us, raped our women, stole our lands, and sent us fleeing into the forest.  We will have our revenge'. 

Such a message of religion and social justice resonated with the young men of Chateau Rouge who had nothing but penury and continued discrimination before them; and it was not difficult for Diallo to create a band of militant, unrepentant, angry men to do his will. 

On one fine May day Diallo's young men and those from the many African neighborhoods of the northern suburbs, joined forces and marched on central Paris. Their leaders did not intend a peaceful protest, but a violent demonstration of black power, the beginning of a holy war, an insurrection, the righting of wrongs and the establishment of sharia law and Africanization. 

Dressed in black hoodies, faces covered with balaclavas, armed with staves, iron pipes, and Molotov cocktails, they descended on the Champs Elysees and torched every shop on the avenue before the police mobilized to stop them.  They willingly took beatings by the riot squads, for footage of the brutality would be seen throughout France and the world generating sympathy for their struggle. 

When word of the demonstrations spread, a thousand more Africans joined the organized marches from Chateau Rouge, and the growing mob was unstoppable.  The police under orders not to shoot or use deadly force were unable to stop the rampage, and the violence and destruction spread from the Champs Elysees into the surrounding neighborhoods. 

When it was over and Diallo, Muhammed, and their brothers-in-arms returned home, they celebrated.  They had defeated the white devil on his own turf and they would return. 

France under successive socialist governments which joined with the American Left in a pursuit of Diversity Equity Inclusion and a multicultural society, opened its doors in act of contrition, reparation, and brotherhood.  France owed it to its former colonies to generously afford Africans all the privileges they had once denied them. 

Once admitted and segregated in the northern suburbs, these African migrants were forgotten.  France had done its duty, Africans were now French, and France's storied culture would work wonders.  These black men would soon be as French as the Parisian with a baguette and beret. 

Not so of course.  These political idealists completely misjudged Islam, naively and ignorantly assuming it was a peaceful religion like any other and would nourish France's long tradition of religious expression.  Despite the Islamic radicalism growing quickly within its borders, French governments took no action. Trapped in 'We are all French' and Liberté, Égalité, and Fraternité ideology and a progressive agenda, radical Islam took over the country. 

The conservative party leader, Marine Le Pen is poised to take the Presidency in the next national election, and she has vowed to stop the violence, deport all those illegally in the country, close mosques and ban public prayer, jail insurrectionist imams, and begin the process of Europeanization. 

Too little, too late as the damage has been done.  There is no way that she can stop the now endemic, insidious, universal anti-European, ant-Christian, and anti-social Islamization of France.  She can make a start but the process, even if continued without political opposition will be a long one. 

Muhammed Babukar's parents hardly recognized him when he was arrested, deported, and returned home.  He was filled with hate, incendiary revenge, and a desire to return to France to complete the Islamic revolution that he helped to start; and within months of his return, he had found a way to once again cross the Mediterranean and enter Europe. 'Allah be praised', he said as he stepped into the country craft boarding in Libya and headed for the small Italian island of Ischia.