Riots In France - The Journeys Of An Islamic Terrorist And A Partisan Of The French Left, A Chronicle Of Two Lives

Abdul al-Rahman grew up in a village near Mopti, a town halfway between Bamako to Timbuktu in Mali. His family were goatherders and had led a simple, pious life. They were little affected or interested in the radical changes that were happening in the country, let well enough alone when ISIS and Tuareg militants asked for water and food. Hospitality was part of their African Muslim culture - one did not refuse guests no matter who they were.  It was part of the brotherhood of likeminded, God-fearing people and was seen as a tribute to Allah. 

The young Abdul was fascinated by these guests.  He wanted to hear their stories of courage and valor, ride their camels, and even shoot their guns.  The guests were very kindly to the boy who clearly thought they were the medieval knights of Muhammed's army, and spent hours around the fire talking to him about Islam, the desert, and the holy war against the infidel. 

They left as abruptly as they came - government troops and French legionnaires had been sighted to the north and east - but their visits profoundly influenced the young boy who wanted to be like them, to leave his uninteresting, hard life and join them in their holy crusade. 

 

He never got his wish, for French soldiers had pushed ISIS militants far in the desert and close to Algeria, the government in Mali had fallen and a new more aggressive one had taken its place. Abdul returned to his goats, the scrub brush of the northern Sahel, and herding his troupe on the long, hot journey to the Mopti market. 

At about this time, the emigrations to Europe had begun, and the countries of the EU governed by welcoming regimes who felt it was their moral duty to admit needy refugees, did not only open their borders, but assisted the refugees who had come in small unseaworthy boats, many of which floundered during the crossing. 

Abdul's father said that the family's future was in France, and if the boy could make his way there, he would soon be able to bring everyone over.  With a hundred euros, a small bag of provisions, and Allah's blessing, Abdul made his way to the Mediterranean with a salt caravan, found passage across the water into Spain where he was welcomed by border security, and after weeks of travel by foot, freight cars, and cattle trucks finally arrived in France. 

The northern suburbs of Paris have become notorious after the insurrection of a decade before when thousands of Africans descended on the center of Paris and rioted from the Rue de Rivoli to the Eiffel Tower. It took the government weeks to finally bring the disturbances under control, but the angry spirit of revolution remained.  On the surface the northern suburbs were quiet, but behind closed doors, radical Islamic leaders planned for an eventual new and more complete assault on white infidel France. 

By the time Abdul arrived in Paris and got settled with his distant cousins from Timbuktu who took him in, the restiveness of the community had reached its limits.  It was no or never to take to the streets, demand attention, reparations, and restitution, and consolidate the growing Muslim minority in the city and throughout France. 

Young men like Abdul were recruited into the movement, treated royally as new soldiers of Allah, indoctrinated and educated in the way of civil disorder, and prepared to defend themselves against the police. 

Abdul, a simple, uneducated, credulous boy took this enthusiastic welcome as a sign of the coming prosperity and good fortune which would enable him to bring his family to France; but he never lost sight of the job at hand - bringing white, Christian Paris to its knees. 

It was a heady, exciting time for the young boy.  He was a soldier in the army of Allah, a trusted comrade of men and boys from Africa, and a crusader in the fight for a Muslim caliphate which would extend from east to west and from there to all parts of the world. 

The white, wealthy, Christian French were the enemy, the infidel, to be eliminated by Allah's righteous sword. The battle against them was no less than jihad, one of many fights to establish an Islamic regime. 

During his time in the norther suburbs he came to hate white people and saw them as the oppressors, the former colonialist overseers and enemy of the black man.  If they died at his hand, he would be rewarded by Allah. 

And so it was that he took to the streets in October 2026 to lay waste to the privileged enclaves of Paris.  Thousands of black and brown Muslim immigrants like him joined in protest, raided, looted, and destroyed shops owned by the oppressor, defied the police and won each and every battle they fought. 

Martine Fontenay had always been a proud advocate for the socialist governments that had ruled France with so much dignity, compassion, and consideration for the French worker.  Although the grand socialist experiment in the Soviet Union had failed to fulfill its promises, this was not because of the idea - Marx, Engels, and Lenin were brilliant thinkers who brought hope and moral justice to the people - it was due to the overreaching of Stalin who lost his way.  

Socialism in Western Europe was still and would always be the only political philosophy which offered justice, equality, and social harmony.  

Martine supported the open borders which allowed thousands of needy sub-Saharan Africans and Maghrebians to come to Europe to flee the harsh autocratic regimes and enforced poverty of their countries.  France would welcome them, shelter them, and give them every benefit due to a native Frenchman. 

Martine was a small business owner with a florist shop on the Rue de Rivoli - a family establishment since before the war, and well-known for the quality of its offerings, the art and grace of its arrangements, and the generosity of the staff.  

All was good with Martine.  She balanced private enterprise with a firm belief in statism, socialism, and progressivism.  She was proud to be French, a country which for centuries had led Europe in statesmanship, arts, letters, and philosophy. 

She resisted the nationalism of those who reminded Frenchmen that their country was The Eldest Daughter of the Church for having repulsed Muslim invaders at Roncesvalles.  It was that xenophobia which lay behind Islamophobia, and she knew and firmly believed that Islam was a religion of peace.  Muslims were always welcome in France for their piety and religious devotion added to the similar Christian devotion of the native-born. 

Even though the higher taxes authorized by successive socialist governments took a significant bite out of her profits, she never once protested.  Such tax revenues were necessary to assure that the poor, the marginalized, and the disadvantaged got their due. 

She shook her head in dismay at the reported misery in the northern suburbs.  The African immigrants who lived there deserved better, and even the most liberal governments were not doing enough.  It was time for a further opening of the national treasury to help these honorable, worthy citizens. 

Then came the October riots.  Her shop windows were smashed, gasoline was poured over every display, every table, every appointment, every flower, and set alight.  She could only stand and watch on the sidewalk as her beloved shop went up in flames. 

 'I am one of you', she pleaded, but for all her support of the black man, the Muslim, the immigrant, and the foreigner, she was just another white Christian who needed to be terrorized and destroyed. 

Abdul was one of those who torched Les Fleurs de Paris and who danced around the flames, cheering loudly as the building incinerated and was turned to smoking rubble. 

'How could you?', she said, grabbing Abdul by the shoulders; but he just shoved her to the sidewalk, spat on her, and joined his comrades as they broke into the more lucrative shop next door, and ran out with thousands of dollar of merchandise. 

Abdul was never arrested and made his way back to the suburbs delirious with the joy of victory, embraced by his comrades and shouting 'Allah be praised!'. 

Martine broke down with uncontrollable sobs as she looked at the smoldering embers which were her store.  She was beaten, morally confused, and bitterly angry.  She had nothing now - no longer a faith in The Other, no business, no history, alone, and irreconcilably lost. 

'Be careful what you wish for' is the first thing that comes to mind, but that demeans the tragedy of Martine Fontenay.  She meant well, she thought she was doing good, but lost her common sense, logic, and objectivity along the way.  She ended up a disillusioned, credulous, frustrated and angry woman but still had no understanding of what had happened.  

Such is the fragility of idealism, a philosophy which is rarely put to the test.  Martine Fontenay did not choose to question her beliefs, the Africans did it for her.