6
Multiculturalism
It	was	in	Berlin,	on	31	August	2015,	that	the	German	Chancellor	indicated	her
new	intentions	and	provided	her	motivational	statement:	‘Wir	schaffen	das’
(‘We	can	do	this’).	Yet	even	these	few	words	raised	questions.	What	was	the
‘this’	that	she	wanted	to	be	done?	What	were	its	aims	and	intentions?	Was
there	 an	 endpoint	 or	 a	 point	 of	 completion	 to	 the	 process?	 What	 would
success	in	this	endeavour	look	like?	These	would	be	large	enough	questions
on	their	own.	But	her	three	short	words	begged	another	equally	considerable
question.	Who	was	this	‘we’?	What	was	the	entity	being	urged	to	accomplish
this	hard-to-define	thing?	In	making	her	statement	Angela	Merkel	had	taken
for	 granted	 the	 existence	 of	 a	 ‘we’.	 But	 in	 the	 years	 preceding	 her	 speech
Europe	had	been	scrutinising	itself	deeply	and	constantly	to	find	an	answer	to
this	question.	And	this	constant	reversion	to	the	psychiatrist’s	couch	was	not
an	abstract	question,	but	one	with	an	urgent	aspect,	all	the	time	fuelled	by	an
awareness	 –	 as	 the	 Dutch	 author	 Paul	 Scheffer	 had	 put	 it	 eight	 years
previously	–	that	‘without	a	“we”	it’s	not	going	to	work’.1
Chancellor	Merkel	herself	was	more	than	aware	of	this.	Five	years	before
her	grand	gesture	she	had	given	another	speech	in	which	she	had	addressed
one	 of	 the	 fastest-growing	 concerns	 of	 her	 nation.	 In	 the	 process	 she	 led	 a
stampede	 of	 European	 leaders	 into	 saying	 what	 had	 gone	 wrong	 with	 the
reigning	European	policy	regarding	immigration	and	integration.	In	October
2010	Merkel	gave	a	major	‘state	of	the	nation’	speech	in	Potsdam.	She	did	so
in	the	middle	of	a	significant	public	debate	already	going	on	in	her	country.
Weeks	earlier	Thilo	Sarrazin,	a	former	Senator	and	member	of	the	executive
board	of	the	Bundesbank,	had	published	a	book	titled	Deutschland	schafft	sich
ab	 (Germany	 Is	 Abolishing	 Itself),	 which	 was	 like	 an	 explosion	 in	 such	 a
consensus-driven	society.	In	his	book	Sarrazin	had	explained	how	low	birth
rates	 among	 Germans	 and	 an	 overly	 high	 level	 of	 immigration	 –	 Muslim
immigration	 in	 particular	 –	 was	 fundamentally	 transforming	 the	 nature	 of
German	 society.	 What	 perhaps	 caused	 most	 controversy	 was	 his	 argument
that	a	higher	birth	rate	among	less	well-educated	people	and	a	lower	birth	rate
among	more	highly	educated	people	was	putting	at	risk	Germany’s	post-war
success	and	prosperity.
The	 evidence	 that	 migrants	 in	 Germany	 were	 failing	 to	 integrate,	 just	 as
Sarrazin	had	argued,	was	all	around	them,	but	the	political	and	media	class	fell
on	Sarrazin	for	his	heresy	in	making	these	arguments.	In	the	resulting	fallout
Sarrazin	himself	was	forced	to	resign	from	his	position	at	the	Bundesbank.
And	despite	himself	coming	from	the	political	left	in	Germany,	his	own	party
(the	 Social	 Democratic	 Party)	 as	 well	 as	 Angela	 Merkel’s	 CDU	 distanced
themselves	from	him.	Various	Muslim	organisations	in	Germany	attempted
to	take	him	to	court	and	most	damagingly	(if	also	baselessly)	he	was	accused
of	 anti-Semitism.	 Nevertheless	 the	 book	 hit	 a	 public	 mood.	 A	 poll	 taken
around	 the	 same	 time	 found	 that	 47	 per	 cent	 of	 Germans	 agreed	 with	 the
statement	 that	 Islam	 doesn’t	 belong	 in	 Germany.	 Although	 German
politicians	had	put	a	firm	cordon	sanitaire	around	the	debate	on	immigration,
integration	and	Islam,	the	two	million	copies	sold	of	Sarrazin’s	book,	among
other	 things,	 suggested	 that	 this	 was	 not	 restraining	 wider	 society	 from
thinking	things	that	their	political	representatives	did	not	want	them	to.
With	typical	political	skill	Merkel	chose	to	speak	to	this	issue,	trying	to	keep
people	with	concerns	within	the	camp	of	her	party	and	also	to	correct	where
she	believed	Sarrazin	and	those	who	supported	his	views	had	gone	wrong.	In
her	speech	in	Potsdam	she	started	by	referring	to	the	country’s	Gastarbeiter
programme	and	the	mass	movement	of	Turks	and	others	to	live	and	work	in
Germany	from	the	early	1960s	onwards.	She	conceded	that	the	country	had	–
like	the	post-war	labour-market	immigration	in	Britain	and	other	European
countries	 –	 ‘kidded	 ourselves	 for	 a	 while’.	 She	 continued,	 ‘We	 said	 “They
won’t	 stay,	 sometime	 they	 will	 be	 gone”,	 but	 this	 isn’t	 reality.’	 It	 failed	 to
anticipate	any	of	the	consequences	flowing	from	the	policy.	She	went	on	to
criticise	more	current	mistakes	in	the	German	immigration	and	integration
debate.
The	speech	was	reported	around	the	world.	What	made	it	so	newsworthy
was	that	it	included	the	most	damning	summary	by	any	mainstream	politician
to	date	of	a	European	country’s	integration	failures.	Some	of	it	had	previously
been	said	on	the	political	margins,	but	had	never	been	so	decidedly	voiced	in
the	mainstream.	Discussing	what	had	gone	wrong	between	Germany	and	its
immigrants,	 the	 Chancellor	 said,	 ‘Of	 course,	 the	 approach	 to	 build	 a
multicultural	 society	 and	 to	 live	 side-by-side	 and	 to	 enjoy	 each	 other	 has
failed,	utterly	failed.’	That	was	why,	she	insisted,	‘integration	is	so	important’.
Those	who	wanted	to	participate	in	German	society	must	follow	the	laws	and
constitution	of	Germany,	she	said,	and	must	also	learn	to	speak	the	German
language.2
Press	 reports	 inside	 Germany	 speculated	 that	 the	 Chancellor	 was
positioning	herself	ahead	of	elections	scheduled	for	the	following	spring.	An
opinion	poll	published	the	same	month	had	shown	a	sharp	increase	in	the
percentage	of	the	German	public	who	were	becoming	concerned	about	levels
of	 immigration,	 revealing	 that	 30	 per	 cent	 feared	 their	 country	 was	 being
‘overrun	 by	 foreigners’	 who	 had	 come	 to	 Germany	 because	 of	 the	 social-
security	benefits	the	country	provided	them	with.3	The	political	ingenuity	of
Merkel’s	 speech	 is	 that	 these	 people	 would,	 like	 almost	 everyone	 else,	 hear
what	 they	 wanted	 from	 a	 speech	 that	 was	 also	 careful	 to	 give	 credit	 to
immigrants	 and	 insist	 on	 how	 welcome	 they	 still	 were	 in	 Germany.
Nevertheless,	the	uttering	of	the	idea	–	and	the	use	of	that	particular	word
twice,	that	multiculturalism	had	‘failed,	utterly	failed’	–	struck	a	chord.	From
the	 moment	 that	 her	 audience	 in	 Potsdam	 gave	 her	 a	 standing	 ovation,
Merkel	found	herself	praised	for	having	the	courage	to	speak	out	on	such	a
difficult	 issue.	 Across	 Europe	 she	 was	 compared	 favourably	 with	 other
political	leaders,	with	the	newspapers	of	other	nations	suggesting	that	only	the
German	Chancellor	had	the	strength	and	courage	to	tell	such	a	difficult	truth.
So	it	was	not	surprising	that	other	political	leaders	soon	wanted	a	bit	of	this,
and	dived	into	waters	that	Merkel	had	shown	to	be	surprisingly	warm.	The
following	February	Britain’s	Prime	Minister,	David	Cameron,	used	a	speech	at
the	Munich	Security	Conference	to	declare	that,	‘Under	the	doctrine	of	state
multiculturalism,	we	have	encouraged	different	cultures	to	live	separate	lives,
apart	from	each	other	and	apart	from	the	mainstream.	We’ve	failed	to	provide
a	vision	of	society	to	which	they	feel	they	want	to	belong.	We’ve	even	tolerated
these	segregated	communities	behaving	in	ways	that	run	completely	counter
to	our	values.’4	A	few	days	later,	in	a	televised	debate,	the	French	President,
Nicolas	Sarkozy,	also	pronounced	multiculturalism	to	be	a	‘failure’	and	said,
‘The	truth	is	that	in	all	our	democracies	we	have	been	too	preoccupied	with
the	 identity	 of	 those	 who	 arrived	 and	 not	 enough	 with	 the	 identity	 of	 the
country	 that	 welcomed	 them.’5	 These	 leaders	 were	 soon	 joined	 by	 others,
including	the	former	Australian	Prime	Minister	John	Howard	and	the	former
Spanish	Prime	Minister	José	María	Aznar.
Within	the	space	of	a	few	months	the	apparently	unsayable	had	been	said
by	almost	everybody.	In	each	country,	on	each	occasion,	a	great	debate	began.
Was	David	Cameron	right	to	twin	the	issue	of	national	security	and	national
cohesion?	 Was	 Merkel	 simply	 trying	 to	 respond	 to	 pressures	 and	 cleverly
keeping	 a	 bloc	 of	 the	 centre-right	 within	 her	 political	 fold?	 Whatever	 the
reasons,	 in	 each	 country	 the	 ‘multiculturalism	 has	 failed’	 debate	 seemed	 to
mark	some	kind	of	watershed	moment.
Yet	despite	the	prolific	nature	of	these	debates,	it	was	unclear	even	at	the
time	 what	 these	 statements	 meant.	 The	 word	 ‘multiculturalism’	 (let	 alone
multikulti	 in	 German)	 already	 sounded	 notoriously	 different	 to	 different
people.	For	many	years,	and	still	today	for	many	people,	the	term	seemed	to
mean	‘pluralism’	or	simply	the	reality	of	living	in	an	ethnically	diverse	society.
To	say	you	were	in	favour	of	multiculturalism	might	mean	that	you	didn’t
mind	people	of	different	backgrounds	in	your	country.	Or	it	might	mean	that
you	believed	that	the	future	for	all	societies	was	to	become	a	great	melting	pot
in	 which	 every	 possible	 culture	 contributed:	 a	 sort	 of	 miniature	 United
Nations	in	each	country.	On	the	other	hand,	saying	that	‘multiculturalism	had
failed’	 may	 have	 sounded	 to	 some	 voters	 as	 a	 concession	 that	 post-war
immigration	as	a	whole	had	been	a	bad	idea	and	that	immigrants	should	not
have	come.	It	may	even	have	sounded	like	a	call	to	stop	mass	immigration	and
even	reverse	such	policies.	In	each	country	these	different	understandings	of
the	same	phrase	were	undoubtedly	politically	beneficial,	giving	politicians	the
opportunity	 to	 embrace	 voters	 they	 might	 otherwise	 have	 had	 to	 avoid
courting.	It	was	no	coincidence	that	each	of	the	political	leaders	who	took	this
plunge	 was	 from	 the	 political	 right	 and	 trying	 to	 keep	 together	 a	 fractious
political	movement	that	risked	going	on	the	move.
But	the	confusion	over	what	these	speeches	meant	also	had	an	old	cause,
because	 ‘multiculturalism’	 had	 always	 been	 a	 hard-to-define	 term.	 To	 the
extent	that	it	was	possible	to	draw	any	clear	inferences	from	their	speeches	it
would	 seem	 that	 Merkel,	 Cameron	 and	 Sarkozy	 were	 addressing	 a	 specific
variety	 of	 state-sponsored	 multiculturalism.	 Theirs	 was	 certainly	 not	 a
criticism	of	a	racially	diverse	society	or	a	society	that	welcomed	immigration.
On	 the	 contrary,	 outside	 the	 headline-grabbing	 parts	 of	 their	 speeches,	 all
professed	their	support	for	large-scale	immigration.	What	they	were	claiming
to	criticise	was	‘multiculturalism’	as	a	state-sponsored	policy:	the	idea	of	the
state	 encouraging	 people	 to	 live	 parallel	 lives	 in	 the	 same	 country	 and
particularly	in	living	under	customs	and	laws	that	stood	in	opposition	to	those
of	 the	 country	 they	 were	 living	 in.	 These	 European	 leaders	 appeared	 to	 be
calling	 for	 a	 post-multicultural	 society	 in	 which	 the	 same	 rule	 of	 law	 and
certain	societal	norms	applied	to	everybody.6	Late	in	the	day	to	argue	such
things,	but	a	significant	step	perhaps.
Many	critics	on	the	political	left	objected	to	the	whole	discussion,	claiming
that	these	were	straw-man	arguments	and	insisting	either	that	such	problems
did	 not	 exist	 or	 that	 they	 did	 exist	 but	 were	 not	 problems.	 But	 by	 2010
growing	 public	 concern	 about	 precisely	 such	 parallel	 societies	 was	 growing
across	Europe.	The	sharpest	cause	of	this	growth	was	the	increasing	tally	of
terrorist	 attacks	 and	 thwarted	 terrorist	 attacks	 involving	 people	 born	 and
brought	up	in	Europe.	But	while	these	attacks	gave	the	concerns	their	edge,
concern	 over	 the	 less	 violent	 or	 non-violent	 expressions	 of	 difference	 were
also	 growing	 –	 and	 not	 always	 because	 they	 were	 being	 expressed	 by
minorities.
In	2006	the	Dutch	Justice	Minister,	Piet	Hein	Donner,	caused	significant
anger	in	the	Netherlands	when	he	suggested	in	an	interview	that	if	Muslims
wished	to	change	the	law	of	the	land	to	Sharia	by	democratic	means	(that	is
when	Muslims	were	large	enough	in	number),	then	they	could	do	so.	In	2004
Donner	had	briefly	proposed	the	resurrection	of	the	country’s	blasphemy	laws
to	 address	 the	 concerns	 of	 some	 Muslims.	 Then	 in	 2008	 there	 was	 at	 least
equal	public	outrage	in	Britain	when	the	Archbishop	of	Canterbury,	Rowan
Williams,	gave	a	lecture	at	the	Royal	Courts	of	Justice	that	addressed	parallel
legal	 jurisdictions	 growing	 inside	 the	 country.	 During	 his	 lecture	 the
archbishop	had	suggested	that	the	adoption	of	elements	of	Sharia	law	in	the
UK	‘seems	unavoidable’.	In	the	wake	of	the	initial	public	anger	the	archbishop
had	insisted	he	had	been	misunderstood.	But	in	a	BBC	radio	interview	the
following	day,	intended	to	clarify	his	remarks,	he	went	even	further,	stating
that	the	idea	‘there’s	one	law	for	everybody	and	that’s	all	there	is	to	be	said’
was	‘a	bit	of	a	danger’.7
Coming	 on	 top	 of	 years	 of	 growing	 concern	 about	 immigration	 and
security	it	suddenly	seemed	as	though	some	of	the	absolute	bases	of	Western
civilisation	were	being	offered	up	for	negotiation.	It	also	sometimes	seemed	as
though	 the	 past	 was	 up	 for	 grabs	 as	 well.	 Only	 a	 fortnight	 before	 Merkel’s
Potsdam	speech	the	President	of	Germany,	Christian	Wulff,	gave	his	speech
on	the	‘Day	of	German	Unity’.	Among	his	comments,	also	aimed	at	answering
the	Sarrazin	question	over	the	place	of	Islam	in	Germany,	Wulff	implied	that
Islam	was	as	much	a	part	of	the	country’s	history	as	Christianity	and	Judaism
had	been.	There	was	an	outcry	in	Germany,	including	from	within	his	own
party.	But	the	President	was	not	alone	in	appearing	willing	to	alter	the	past	in
order	to	adapt	to	present	realities.
In	each	case	the	backlash	against	comments	such	as	these	came	because	of	a
wider	sentiment	that	in	the	multicultural	era	Europe	was	being	expected	to
give	 up	 too	 much	 of	 itself	 –	 including	 its	 history	 –	 while	 those	 who	 had
arrived	were	being	expected	to	give	up	next	to	nothing	of	their	traditions.	If
that	 was	 indeed	 one	 direction	 in	 which	 Europe	 might	 have	 been	 heading,
Cameron,	Merkel,	Sarkozy	and	other	politicians	of	the	right	were	attempting
to	 outline	 another	 route.	 None	 of	 them	 was	 denying	 that	 the	 process	 of
adaptation	might	be	a	two-way	street,	but	they	were	being	careful	to	stress
what	 was	 expected	 of	 the	 immigrants,	 in	 particular	 to	 be	 able	 to	 speak	 the
language	of	the	country	they	were	in	and	to	live	by	its	laws.
The	virulence	with	which	such	basic	demands	were	debated	was	a	reminder
that	absolutely	none	of	this	had	been	planned	for	in	the	post-war	years.	It	was
just	the	latest	part	of	a	‘make	it	up	as	we	go	along’	process.	And	it	meant	that
even	 the	 terms	 being	 used	 were	 constantly	 changing.	 As	 the	 historian	 and
critic	of	multiculturalism,	Rumy	Hasan,	said	in	a	book	published	at	this	time,
the	distinct	phases	of	Britain’s	post-war	immigration	was	one	demonstration
of	this	fact.	During	the	first	phase	(from	the	1940s	to	the	1970s)	non-white
settlers	from	the	Commonwealth	were	known	as	‘coloured	immigrants’	and
recognised	as	different	from	the	rest	of	society.	Then	during	the	1970s	and
1980s,	partly	in	an	effort	to	tackle	discrimination,	these	people	became	‘Black
British’	and	began	to	be	viewed	as	normal	and	equal	citizens.	Soon	afterwards
the	country	became	characterised	as	a	‘multicultural’	society	in	the	sense	that
it	contained	people	from	different	cultures.	As	Hasan	says,	a	‘multiracial’	or
‘multi-ethnic’	 society	 would	 have	 been	 a	 better	 description,	 but	 the
discrediting	 of	 the	 idea	 of	 ‘race’	 by	 that	 time	 meant	 that	 ‘multiculturalism’
seemed	to	be	the	best	term	on	offer.	However,	if	its	intentions	were	to	unite
people	under	one	national	umbrella,	the	new	definition	ended	up	having	the
opposite	 effect.	 Indeed,	 rather	 than	 leading	 to	 a	 unified	 identity	 it	 led	 to	 a
fracturing	of	identities,	where	instead	of	making	society	colour-	or	identity-
blind,	it	suddenly	made	identity	into	everything.
A	 version	 of	 ‘pork	 barrel’	 politics	 entered	 society.	 Organisations	 and
interest	groups	were	thrown	up	that	claimed	to	represent	and	speak	for	all
manner	 of	 identity	 groups.	 The	 ambitious,	 generally	 self-appointed	 figures
who	claimed	these	roles	became	the	middlemen	between	the	authorities	and	a
particular	 community.	 They	 were	 not	 the	 only	 ones	 to	 benefit	 from	 this
approach.	Local	and	national	politicians	were	also	able	to	gain	from	a	process
that	made	their	lives	so	much	easier,	giving	as	it	did	the	impression	that	it	was
possible	to	pick	up	a	phone	and	get	a	particular	community.	Of	course,	to	be
on	the	side	of	a	particular	community	created	the	potential	for	getting	that
allegedly	monolithic	community’s	votes,	and	in	some	cases	the	communities
delivered.
Inevitably,	local	councils	and	others	funnelled	money	to	particular	ethnic
and	religious	groups.	And	although	some	of	this	was	done	to	win	votes,	some
of	it	was	also	done	for	nobler	reasons,	not	least	a	genuine	desire	to	tackle	any
existing	 discrimination.	 Yet	 even	 ‘anti-racist’	 groups	 tended	 to	 be	 political
beyond	 the	 realms	 they	 had	 at	 first	 set	 out	 to	 address.	 Those	 groups	 that
aspired	 to	 tackle	 actual	 discrimination	 in	 time	 sought	 increasing	 influence,
access	and	funding.	And	they	were	aware	that	they	could	only	get	this	if	the
problem	was	not	solved.	In	time	this	had	the	effect	of	making	discrimination
appear	worse	–	and	needing	to	be	fought	harder	–	at	the	very	points	at	which
things	 were	 getting	 better.	 Complaints	 against	 society	 presented	 an
opportunity	to	grow.	Satisfaction	became	a	dying	business.
At	 the	 same	 time	 the	 only	 culture	 that	 couldn’t	 be	 celebrated	 was	 the
culture	that	had	allowed	all	these	other	cultures	to	be	celebrated	in	the	first
place.	In	order	to	become	multicultural,	countries	found	that	they	had	to	do
themselves	down,	particularly	focusing	on	their	negatives.	Thus	the	states	that
had	been	so	open	and	liberal	that	they	had	allowed	and	encouraged	large-scale
migration	were	portrayed	as	countries	which	were	uniquely	racist.	And	while
any	and	all	other	cultures	in	the	world	could	be	celebrated	within	Europe,	to
celebrate	even	the	good	things	about	Europe	within	Europe	became	suspect.
The	 multicultural	 era	 was	 one	 of	 European	 self-abnegation	 where	 the	 host
society	 appeared	 to	 stand	 back	 from	 itself	 and	 hoped	 that	 it	 would	 not	 be
noticed	other	than	as	some	form	of	benign	convener.	It	was	for	this	reason,
among	 others,	 that	 the	 celebrated	 American	 political	 philosopher,	 Samuel
Huntington,	wrote	in	his	last	book,	‘Multiculturalism	is	in	its	essence	anti-
European	civilisation.	It	is	basically	an	anti-Western	ideology’.8
In	every	European	country	the	period	in	which	nothing	could	be	said	about
this	 broke	 down	 at	 different	 speeds	 over	 a	 similar	 period.	 In	 the	 United
Kingdom	the	work	of	‘Race	Relations’	quangos	helped	hold	a	lid	on	it	until	the
summer	 of	 2001.	 At	 that	 point,	 partly	 as	 a	 result	 of	 riots	 in	 the	 north	 of
England	involving	young	Muslim	men,	and	partly	because	of	events	in	New
York	 and	 Washington,	 the	 existence	 of	 parallel	 communities	 began	 to	 be
discussed	more	widely	and	the	concept	of	‘multiculturalism’	began	to	come	in
for	criticism.	In	Holland	the	dams	broke	a	little	earlier.	In	France	they	stayed
tight	 until	 the	 banlieue	 riots	 of	 2005.	 Germany	 and	 Sweden	 took	 a	 while
longer.	But	in	the	2000s	dissidents	from	the	multicultural	consensus	began	to
break	out	everywhere.
Some	of	those	who	broke	that	consensus	were	politicians	of	the	left.	Their
apostasy	had	a	particular	impact,	because	while	politicians	and	commentators
of	the	right	were	almost	expected	to	have	a	problem	with	multiculturalism
and	could	always	be	suspected	of	harbouring	nativist	tendencies,	those	from
the	left	were	generally	seen	to	have	less	easily	assailable	motives	and	could
even	be	believed.	Nevertheless,	the	breakages	that	were	most	liberating	(not
least	because	they	gave	cover	for	other	people	to	speak)	came	from	European
citizens	from	ethnic	backgrounds.	In	Britain	the	slow	apostasy	from	the	race-
relations	 industry	 of	 one	 of	 its	 former	 leaders,	 Trevor	 Phillips,	 opened	 up
territory	that	others	had	not	dared	to	walk	in.	His	realisation	that	the	race-
relations	 industry	 was	 part	 of	 the	 problem,	 and	 that	 partly	 as	 a	 result	 of
talking	 up	 difference	 the	 country	 was	 ‘sleepwalking	 to	 segregation’,	 was	 an
insight	 others	 soon	 began	 to	 share	 across	 the	 continent.	 Among	 other
dissidents	 from	 multiculturalism	 to	 emerge	 during	 the	 same	 decade,	 some
entered	politics	whereas	others	remained	outside	as	opinion	formers.	But	the
emergence	during	the	2000s	of,	among	others,	Ahmed	Aboutaleb	and	Ayaan
Hirsi	Ali	in	Holland,	Nyamko	Sabuni	in	Sweden,	Naser	Khader	in	Denmark
and	 Magdi	 Allam	 in	 Italy,	 had	 a	 palpably	 liberating	 effect.	 All	 spoke	 from
within	 their	 communities	 to	 countries	 that	 needed	 people	 of	 such
backgrounds	to	break	the	ice.	They	managed	to	do	so	with	varying	degrees	of
success.
In	every	country	the	early	criticisms	alighted	around	the	same	issues.	The
most	extreme	and	unacceptable	practices	of	some	communities	became	the
first	way	in	to	split	open	the	prevailing	orthodoxies.	In	each	country	the	issues
of	‘honour’	killings	and	female	genital	mutilation	received	massive	attention.
This	was	partly	because	many	people	were	genuinely	shocked	that	such	things
were	going	on	and	had	feared	saying	so	if	they	had	known	about	it	before.
Partly	 it	 was	 due	 to	 the	 fact	 that	 these	 issues	 were	 the	 ‘softest’	 or	 easiest
concerns	 to	 express	 about	 the	 multicultural	 era.	 If	 not	 entirely	 unopposed,
these	issues	were	at	least	capable	of	uniting	opinion	from	the	widest	possible
political	 spectrum:	 from	 a	 left-wing	 feminist	 to	 a	 right-wing	 nationalist.
Almost	everybody	could	agree	that	murdering	young	women	was	wrong.	And
most	people	could	unite	in	expressing	their	horror	at	the	thought	of	a	young
girl’s	genitals	being	mutilated	in	twenty-first-century	Europe.
Over	the	course	of	the	2000s	the	criticisms	of	such	extreme	examples	of
multiculturalism	 in	 European	 society	 grew.	 Everywhere	 the	 questions
Europeans	were	pondering	coalesced	around	the	limits	of	tolerance.	Should
liberal	societies	tolerate	the	intolerant?	Or	was	there	a	moment	when	even	the
most	tolerant	society	should	say	‘enough’?	Had	our	societies	been	too	liberal
and	in	the	process	allowed	illiberalism	or	anti-liberalism	to	thrive?	Around
this	 time,	 as	 Rumy	 Hasan	 pointed	 out,	 the	 era	 of	 multiculturalism	 quietly
transformed	 into	 the	 era	 of	 ‘multifaithism’.	 Ethnic	 identity,	 which	 had
previously	been	the	focus	of	the	multiculturalism	debate,	began	to	recede	and
faith	 identity,	 which	 to	 many	 people	 seemed	 to	 have	 come	 from	 nowhere,
instead	 became	 the	 crucial	 issue.	 What	 had	 been	 a	 question	 of	 blacks,
Caribbeans	or	North	Africans	now	became	a	question	of	Muslims	and	Islam.
As	 with	 each	 of	 the	 previous	 periods	 of	 post-war	 change,	 the	 process	 of
seeing	through	this	period	did	not	occur	overnight.	It	had	taken	European
governments	decades	to	recognise	that	the	Gastarbeiter	era	had	not	gone	as
planned.	In	the	same	way	it	took	time	for	European	governments	to	realise
that	if	migrants	were	staying	in	their	adopted	country	then	they	needed	laws
to	protect	them	from	discrimination.	The	period	of	multiculturalism	also	took
a	couple	of	decades	to	burn	itself	out.	But	like	those	previous	episodes,	even	as
its	death	was	recognised	and	in	this	case	announced,	it	was	unclear	what	all
this	meant	and	what	might	replace	it.
A	CORE	CULTURE?
One	of	the	few	people	who	had	already	done	the	thinking	on	this	was	Bassam
Tibi.	The	academic	who	had	himself	migrated	to	Germany	from	Syria	in	1962
spent	years	urging	the	integration	of	minority	communities	into	Germany.	In
an	initially	discouraging	atmosphere	he	also	evolved	a	specific	concept	of	how
to	go	about	this.	European	countries,	he	suggested,	should	move	from	a	policy
of	 multiculturalism	 towards	 one	 that	 advocated	 for	 a	 leitkultur	 or	 ‘core
culture’.	This	notion	–	first	put	forward	by	him	in	the	1990s	–	argued	for	a
form	of	multi-ethnic	society	that	embraced	people	of	different	backgrounds
but	united	them	around	a	set	of	common	themes.9	Like	jazz	it	could	work	if
everyone	 knew	 the	 theme	 that	 they	 were	 riffing	 around.	 But	 it	 could	 not
possibly	work	if	the	theme	was	unknown,	forgotten	or	lost.	In	such	a	situation
a	 society	 would	 not	 only	 fail	 to	 hang	 together	 but	 would	 represent	 a
cacophony.	 It	 was	 one	 of	 the	 first	 attempts	 to	 present	 a	 solution	 to	 the
European	multicultural	problem,	in	particular	the	question	of	how	to	unite
people	 of	 such	 disparate	 backgrounds	 as	 now	 existed	 in	 Europe.	 The	 most
straightforward	answer	was	that	they	should	be	united	not	necessarily	by	a
dedication	to	precisely	the	same	heritage	but	at	least	a	unified	belief	in	the
core	 concepts	 of	 the	 modern	 liberal	 state	 such	 as	 the	 rule	 of	 law,	 the
separation	of	Church	and	State	and	human	rights.	Yet	even	as	a	few	figures
like	Tibi	were	thinking	through	this	era,	most	of	the	rest	of	society	was	having
to	just	live	its	way	through	it.	If	there	was	a	painful	slowness	about	finding	any
way	through	this,	it	was	at	least	in	part	because	of	a	set	of	ongoing	and	painful
cognitive	dissonances.
Once	Europe	had	realised	that	the	immigrants	were	going	to	stay,	it	held
two	 wholly	 contradictory	 ideas	 that	 were	 nevertheless	 able	 to	 cohabit	 for
several	decades.	The	first	was	the	idea	that	Europeans	began	to	tell	themselves
from	 the	 1970s	 and	 1980s	 onwards.	 This	 was	 the	 notion	 that	 European
countries	could	be	a	new	type	of	multi-racial,	multicultural	society	into	which
anyone	from	anywhere	in	the	world	could	come	and	settle	if	they	so	wished.
This	never	received	public	support,	but	it	had	some	elite	support	and	most
importantly	was	propelled	by	the	inability	of	any	government	to	turn	around
the	process	of	mass	migration	once	it	had	started.	During	the	first	waves	of
migration	(and	certainly	when	it	was	expected	that	many	immigrants	at	least
would	still	go	back	home	at	some	point)	few	people	minded	if	the	newcomers
failed	to	assimilate.	In	fact,	they	rarely	wanted	them	to.
To	varying	degrees	in	each	country,	the	new	arrivals	were	put	into	towns
and	suburbs	on	their	own,	generally	in	places	where	they	would	work.	Even
when	the	work	dried	up,	people	coming	in	from	the	same	communities	still
tended	to	move	to	the	areas	where	other	people	of	their	background	lived.	If
they	were	not	always	encouraged	to	do	so,	certainly	there	was	little	effort	to
discourage	them	from	doing	so.	Governments	were	subsequently	blamed	for
the	 segregation,	 but	 many	 of	 the	 immigrants	 self-segregated	 through	 a
perfectly	understandable	wish	to	retain	their	culture	and	customs	in	a	society
that	had	no	connection	to	them.
When	people	realised	that	the	newcomers	were	not	going	anywhere,	there
was	also	some	native	resistance	to	their	presence,	and	any	suggestion	that	the
migrants	should	change	their	ways	was	inevitably	tainted	by	association.	If	the
immigrants	were	going	to	stay	then	they	should	be	made	to	feel	at	home.	To
do	so	it	was	necessary	to	do	a	whole	range	of	things.	But	it	was	easier	to	do	the
abstract	things	than	the	practical	ones.	Among	the	abstract	things	was	a	clear
effort	 to	 adapt	 or	 change	 the	 story	 of	 the	 host	 nation.	 Sometimes	 this	 was
simply	 a	 process	 of	 rewriting	 history	 or	 changing	 its	 emphases.	 On	 other
occasions	it	seemed	to	involve	an	active	denigration	of	it.
One	such	effort,	as	practised	by	President	Wulff,	involved	talking	up	any
and	every	aspect	of	non-European	culture	in	order	to	raise	it	to	a	level	at	least
of	 parity	 with	 Europe.	 So,	 for	 instance,	 the	 more	 Islamic	 terrorist	 attacks
occurred	the	more	the	influence	of	the	Islamic	neo-Platonists	was	raised	and
the	more	the	significance	of	Islamic	science	was	stressed.	In	the	decade	after
those	 attacks	 the	 rule	 of	 the	 Muslim	 Caliphate	 of	 Cordoba	 in	 Andalusia,
southern	 Spain,	 between	 the	 eighth	 and	 eleventh	 centuries	 moved	 from
historical	obscurity	to	being	the	great	exemplar	of	tolerance	and	multicultural
coexistence.	This	itself	required	a	careful	new	version	of	history,	but	the	past
was	being	conjured	up	to	provide	some	hope	in	the	present.
Such	aspects	of	Islamic	culture	soon	had	to	sustain	an	almost	unbearable
burden.	 An	 exhibition	 called	 ‘1001	 Islamic	 Inventions’	 toured	 London’s
Science	Museum	among	others,	insisting	that	almost	everything	in	Western
civilisation	 had	 in	 fact	 originated	 in	 the	 Islamic	 world.	 Ahistorical	 though
such	claims	were,	they	developed	the	aura	of	faith.	People	needed	them	to	be
true	and	ceased	challenging	all	such	claims.	It	became	a	matter	not	merely	of
politeness,	 but	 of	 necessity	 to	 stress	 and	 indeed	 over-stress	 how	 much	 was
owed	by	European	culture	to	the	cultures	of	the	most	troubled	communities.
When	 in	 2008	 a	 French	 medievalist	 academic,	 Sylvain	 Gouguenheim,
published	an	essay	arguing	that	the	texts	from	Ancient	Greece	often	said	to
have	been	saved	by	Arab	Muslims	with	no	knowledge	of	Greek	had	in	fact
been	 preserved	 by	 Syriac	 Christians,	 the	 debate	 became	 a	 heated	 political
issue.	 Public	 petitions	 and	 letters	 denounced	 Gouguenheim	 for	 his
‘Islamophobia’	in	coming	to	this	finding.	Few	other	academics	even	spoke	out
in	 support	 of	 his	 right	 to	 say	 what	 the	 evidence	 he	 provided	 showed.
Cowardice	aside,	this	was	just	one	demonstration	of	an	urgent	need	–	as	with
the	argument	‘we’ve	always	been	a	nation	of	immigrants’	that	took	hold	at	the
same	time	–	to	change	Europe’s	fairly	monocultural	past	to	fit	in	with	its	very
multicultural	present.
At	 the	 same	 time	 there	 were	 people	 who	 took	 these	 methods	 to	 their
extremes.	 For	 a	 further	 way	 of	 trying	 to	 arrange	 a	 point	 of	 equal	 standing
between	the	incoming	cultures	and	the	host	culture	was	to	talk	down	the	host
culture.	One	notorious	as	well	as	high-profile	example	of	this	came	from	the
Swedish	Minister	of	Integration,	Mona	Sahlin,	while	speaking	at	a	Kurdish
mosque	 in	 2004.	 The	 Social	 Democratic	 minister	 (who	 wore	 a	 veil	 for	 the
occasion)	told	her	audience	that	many	Swedes	were	jealous	of	them,	because
the	Kurds	had	a	rich	and	unifying	culture	and	history,	whereas	the	Swedes
only	had	silly	things	like	the	festival	of	Midsummer’s	Night.10	Another	way	of
achieving	the	same	effect	was	to	insist	that	there	was	in	essence	no	such	thing
as	 European	 culture.	 In	 2005	 a	 journalist	 asked	 the	 Swedish	 government’s
Parliamentary	Secretary	and	lead	integration	official,	Lise	Bergh,	whether	or
not	Swedish	culture	was	worth	preserving.	The	reply	she	gave	was,	‘Well,	what
is	Swedish	culture?	And	with	that	I	guess	I’ve	answered	the	question.’11
It	is	hardly	possible	to	blame	immigrants	alone	for	the	resulting	confusions
of	this	era.	It	was	the	European	societies	who	let	them	in	who	had	no	idea
what	 attitude	 to	 take	 towards	 them	 once	 they	 were	 here.	 That	 it	 took	 six
decades	 of	 immigration	 for	 the	 political	 leaders	 of	 France,	 Germany	 and
Britain	(among	others)	to	state	that	immigrants	should	speak	the	language	of
the	country	they	were	in	demonstrated	the	problem.	Only	a	few	years	earlier
such	a	demand	would	have	been	–	and	was	–	attacked	as	‘racist’.	That	it	took
until	2010	for	a	German	Chancellor	to	insist	that	the	law	of	the	land	and	the
Constitution	of	Germany	must	be	followed	by	migrants	pointed	to	a	failure	of
Germany	at	least	as	much	as	the	failure	of	any	immigrants.	Again,	only	a	few
years	 earlier,	 anyone	 who	 made	 such	 a	 call	 would	 have	 been	 subjected	 to
accusations	of	the	basest	motives.	But	in	the	years	before	the	multicultural	era
was	 announced	 as	 having	 ended,	 and	 before	 the	 political	 ground	 began	 to
move,	there	were	so	many	confusions.
The	 question	 of	 whether	 immigrants	 were	 expected	 to	 assimilate	 or	 be
encouraged	to	retain	their	own	culture	was	just	one	confusion.	If,	as	by	2011
most	mainstream	politicians	agreed,	something	between	the	two	was	expected
then	what	were	the	bits	of	the	incomer’s	culture	that	should	be	dropped	and
what	were	the	bits	of	the	native	culture	that	should	be	adapted?	Presumably
one	reason	for	the	lack	of	public	discussion	on	this	was	an	awareness	of	how
painful	 it	 would	 be	 to	 most	 Europeans.	 Which	 parts	 of	 their	 own	 culture
would	they	volunteer	to	give	up?	What	reward	would	they	get	in	return,	and
when	would	they	experience	the	effects	of	that	reward?	Of	course,	such	an
idea	 was	 never	 passed	 by	 the	 public	 because	 the	 European	 publics	 almost
certainly	would	never	have	given	their	approval.	Yet	even	worse	presumptions
lay	beneath.
If	 the	 host	 country	 was	 not	 going	 to	 give	 something	 up	 then	 surely	 the
incomers	must?	But	what	were	those	things,	and	who	ever	spelt	them	out?
And	what	were	the	punishments	for	failing	to	abide	by	them.	For	example,
what	 would	 happen	 to	 migrants	 who	 once	 they	 were	 in	 Europe	 refused	 to
learn	the	native	language?	If	there	were	no	punishment	or	disincentive	then
any	such	suggestion	was	no	more	than	words.	All	the	time	it	was	also	unclear
how	many	immigrants	simply	wanted	to	enjoy	their	rights	in	Europe	and	how
many	wanted	to	become	Europeans.	What	was	the	difference	between	the	two
and	what	were	the	incentives	to	be	one	rather	than	the	other?	Did	Europeans
ever	really	want	the	incomers	to	become	like	them?
All	 the	 while	 the	 official	 line	 remained	 that	 once	 a	 passport	 or	 visa	 was
issued,	then	the	country	or	continent’s	latest	arrival	became	as	European	as
anyone	 else.	 And	 all	 the	 while	 that	 governments	 discussed	 the	 possible
measures	 needed	 to	 encourage	 millions	 of	 people	 already	 in	 Europe	 to
become	Europeans,	the	minds	of	the	European	publics	mulled	over	another
idea	 –	 one	 ordinarily	 pushed	 to	 the	 very	 recesses	 of	 the	 public	 debate,	 but
always	capable	of	breaking	out.
This	was	the	fear	that	all	of	this	was	bogus	and	that	if	not	all,	then	at	least
much	of	the	existing	plan	was	going	to	fail.	It	was	a	concern	based	on	the
thought	that	if	integration	were	to	happen	then	it	would	take	a	very	long	time
–	perhaps	centuries	–	and	that	in	any	case	it	had	certainly	not	happened	yet	in
Europe.	Here	the	everyday	experience	of	Europeans	is	more	important	than
any	survey	and	the	experience	of	their	eyes	is	more	important	than	official
statistics	from	any	government.
‘THE	GREAT	REPLACEMENT’
Any	trip	to	thousands	of	locations	across	Europe	can	spark	the	fear	of	what
the	 French	 writer	 and	 philosopher	 Renaud	 Camus	 has	 characterised	 as	 ‘Le
Grand	 Remplacement’.	 Take	 the	 suburb	 of	 Saint-Denis	 on	 the	 northern
outskirts	of	Paris.	This	is	one	of	the	central	locations	of	French	history	and
culture,	named	after	the	great	Basilica	Cathedral	at	its	centre	in	which	lie	the
relics	of	the	third-century	Bishop	of	Paris	who	is	now	the	city’s	patron	saint.
The	 present	 building,	 dating	 from	 the	 twelfth	 century,	 is	 also	 famous	 for
another	reason.	From	the	sixth	century	onwards	it	was	the	necropolis	of	the
French	royal	family.	Their	memorials,	featuring	elaborate	likenesses	in	stone,
include	 those	 of	 the	 Capetian	 dynasty,	 the	 Bourbons,	 the	 Medicis	 and	 the
Merovingians.	 At	 the	 time	 of	 the	 French	 Revolution	 these	 tombs	 were
desecrated,	but	today	in	the	crypt	lie	the	stark,	marble	tombs	of	the	King	and
Queen	that	revolution	overthrew:	Louis	XVI	and	Marie-Antoinette.
Not	least	among	the	earlier	tombs	in	Saint-Denis	is	that	of	Charles	Martel,
the	Frankish	leader	who	a	century	after	the	death	of	Mohammed,	when	the
Umayyad	Caliphate	was	pushing	relentlessly	into	Europe,	forced	the	Muslim
armies	back.	Martel’s	victory	at	the	Battle	of	Tours	in	732	is	recognised	for
having	prevented	the	spread	of	Islam	throughout	Europe.	Had	his	Frankish
armies	 not	 succeeded	 no	 other	 power	 in	 Europe	 could	 have	 stopped	 the
Muslim	 armies	 from	 conquering	 the	 continent.	 When	 those	 armies	 had
crossed	into	Europe	in	711	one	of	their	leaders,	Tariq	bin	Zayad,	famously
ordered	 their	 boats	 to	 be	 burnt,	 saying	 ‘We	 have	 not	 come	 here	 to	 return.
Either	we	conquer	and	establish	ourselves,	or	we	perish.’	Martel	ensured	that
they	perished	and	that	other	than	having	gained	a	foothold	in	southern	Spain,
Islam	would	never	progress	further	into	Europe.	As	Edward	Gibbon	famously
wrote	a	millennium	later,	were	it	not	for	the	victory	of	the	man	who	became
known	as	‘The	Hammer’:	‘Perhaps	the	interpretation	of	the	Koran	would	now
be	taught	in	the	schools	of	Oxford,	and	her	pulpits	might	demonstrate	to	a
circumcised	people	the	sanctity	and	truth	of	the	revelation	of	Mohammed.’	As
Gibbon	 went	 on,	 ‘From	 such	 calamities	 was	 Christendom	 delivered	 by	 the
genius	and	fortune	of	one	man.’12
Today	a	visitor	to	the	basilica	in	which	Martel’s	tomb	sits	may	well	wonder
whether	he	did	indeed	succeed	–	or	at	least	reflect	that	after	he	succeeded	his
descendants	 failed.	 To	 wander	 the	 district	 of	 Saint-Denis	 today	 is	 to	 see	 a
district	 more	 resembling	 North	 Africa	 than	 France.	 The	 market	 square
outside	the	basilica	is	a	souk	more	than	a	market.	Stalls	sell	different	styles	of
hijab	and	radical	groups	hand	out	literature	against	the	state.	Inside,	though
all	the	clergy	are	elderly	white	men	the	residual	congregation	is	black	African,
part	of	the	non-Muslim	wave	of	immigration	into	the	area	from	Martinique
and	Guadeloupe.
This	area	has	one	of	the	highest	Muslim	populations	in	France.	Around	30
per	 cent	 of	 the	 population	 of	 Seine	 Saint-Denis,	 also	 known	 as	 the	 93rd
district,	are	Muslim.	No	more	than	15	per	cent	are	Catholic.	But	with	most	of
the	immigrants	in	the	area	from	the	Maghreb	and	sub-Saharan	Africa	and	a
growing	 youth	 population,	 it	 is	 not	 surprising	 that	 even	 in	 the	 district’s
private	 Catholic	 schools	 around	 70	 per	 cent	 of	 the	 students	 are	 Muslim.
Meanwhile	the	area’s	Jewish	population	has	halved	in	recent	years.	According
to	the	Interior	Ministry	the	district	has	around	10	per	cent	(230)	of	the	total
number	of	known	mosques	in	France.	If	you	visit	them	you	can	see	that	there
are	nowhere	near	enough	for	the	needs	of	the	community.	At	Friday	prayers
worshipers	spill	out	onto	the	streets	and	a	number	of	the	major	mosques	are
struggling	to	create	larger	facilities	to	meet	the	demand.
Of	course,	if	you	mention	Saint-Denis	to	anyone	in	the	centre	of	Paris	they
grimace.	They	know	it	is	there	and	try	never	to	go	to	it.	With	the	exception	of
the	Stade	de	France	stadium	there	is	little	reason	to	go	anywhere	near	the	area.
Having	been	scarred	by	waves	of	de-industrialisation	and	re-industrialisation,
in	recent	years	the	government	has	attempted	to	do	some	social	engineering,
building	municipal	offices	in	the	area	for	state	employees	to	work	in.	But	these
employees	(around	50,000)	who	have	jobs	in	the	area	almost	never	live	there.
They	come	in	from	elsewhere	in	the	morning	and	leave	again	in	the	evening,
when	their	office	blocks	are	carefully	locked	and	the	security	fences	secured.	It
is	France’s	immigration	challenge	summed	up	in	one	district.
The	same	phenomena	can	be	witnessed	in	the	suburbs	of	Marseilles	and
many	 other	 areas	 of	 France.	 But	 it	 can	 also	 be	 noticed	 by	 any	 visitor	 or
resident,	however	unwilling	to	go	to	Saint-Denis,	on	a	simple	trip	on	the	RER
and	Métro	in	the	centre	of	Paris.	Travelling	on	the	deep	underground	RER,
stopping	infrequently	and	with	long	distances	between	stops,	often	feels	like
taking	an	underground	train	in	an	African	city.	Most	of	the	people	are	black
and	they	are	making	their	way	far	out	to	the	suburbs.	Those	places	where	the
RER	stops	in	Paris’s	chic	centres	–	Châtelet	for	example	–	are	known	as	areas
where	there	can	be	trouble,	especially	in	the	evening	when	bored	youths	from
the	banlieues	hang	around	in	town.	Always	there	lingers	the	memory	of	2005
when	riots	and	car-burnings	from	the	banlieues	were	repeated	as	far	into	the
centre	as	the	Marais	district.
However,	if	you	travel	in	the	Métro	train	above	the	RER	lines,	which	serves
the	shorter	stops	around	the	centre	of	the	city,	you	enter	a	different	world.
The	travellers	on	the	Métro	are	mostly	white	people	going	to	work	whereas
the	RER	is	mostly	full	of	individuals	either	going	only	to	low-paid	service	jobs
or	appearing	to	be	heading	nowhere.	Nobody	can	experience	this	light	airy
feeling	in	the	centre	of	Paris	and	the	deep	swell	of	other	people	underneath
and	 not	 sense	 that	 there	 is	 something	 amiss.	 The	 same	 feeling	 will	 strike
anybody	 travelling	 through	 certain	 towns	 in	 the	 north	 of	 England,	 or
neighbourhoods	 of	 Rotterdam	 and	 Amsterdam.	 Today	 it	 can	 also	 be
experienced	in	the	suburbs	of	Stockholm	and	Malmö.	These	are	places	where
the	immigrants	live	but	they	bear	no	resemblance	to	the	areas	inhabited	by	the
locals.	Politicians	pretend	that	this	problem	could	be	solved	by	more	elegant
or	innovative	town-planning,	or	by	an	especially	talented	housing	minister.
From	 2015	 onwards	 they	 had	 to	 continue	 trying	 to	 pretend	 this	 in	 capital
cities	some	of	whose	areas	had	started	to	resemble	refugee	camps.	Although
the	police	continually	tried	to	move	the	migrants	on	to	keep	their	city	looking
as	it	is	meant	to,	in	Paris	in	2016	huge	encampments	of	male	North	Africans
moved	 around	 the	 suburbs.	 In	 places	 like	 the	 Stalingrad	 area	 of	 Paris’s
nineteenth	arrondissement,	hundreds	of	tents	were	put	up	on	traffic	islands
running	along	the	middle	of	the	main	roads	or	on	the	sides	of	the	pavements.
When	the	police	moved	them	on,	they	simply	sprang	up	somewhere	else.	But
even	before	2015,	the	theories	of	so-called	experts	and	politicians	as	to	what
could	happen	or	is	meant	to	happen	to	alleviate	this	ongoing	problem	have
simply	been	colliding	with	the	experience	of	what	is	actually	going	on	in	front
of	their	very	eyes.
Everyday	 awareness	 of	 this	 problem	 as	 well	 as	 an	 awareness	 of	 it	 going
largely	unsaid	means	that	many	Europeans	chew	over	another	dark	concern.
Which	 is	 that	 seeing	 these	 very	 large	 numbers	 of	 people	 and	 seeing	 them
going	about	their	very	different	lives,	it	might	be	the	case	that	in	the	future
these	 people	 will	 come	 to	 dominate	 –	 that,	 for	 instance,	 a	 strong	 religious
culture	 when	 placed	 into	 a	 weak	 and	 relativistic	 culture	 may	 keep	 itself	 to
itself	at	first	but	finally	make	itself	felt	in	more	definite	ways.	Again,	studies
and	polls	are	not	much	use	in	pinning	down	this	sense	of	imminent	change.
Occasional	 polls	 are	 used	 to	 ‘prove’	 that	 immigrant	 communities	 are
integrated	 into	 existing	 society.	 But	 if	 the	 integration	 that	 politicians	 and
some	 pollsters	 say	 has	 happened	 had	 in	 fact	 occurred,	 then	 we	 would	 be
witnessing	quite	a	different	reality.	For	example,	pubs	very	often	close	in	those
areas	 of	 the	 United	 Kingdom	 where	 Pakistani	 and	 other	 Muslim	 migrants
have	moved	in	in	large	numbers.	If	the	newcomers	were	becoming	‘as	British
as	anybody	else’	–	as	government	ministers	and	others	insist	that	they	are	–
then	the	pubs	would	remain	open	and	the	new	arrivals	drink	lukewarm	beer
like	everybody	else	who	had	lived	on	the	street	before	them.	It	is	the	same	with
churches.	If	the	incomers	were	indeed	to	become	‘as	British	as	anybody	else’,
then	they	would	fail	to	turn	up	to	church	most	Sundays	but	would	be	there	for
weddings,	 occasionally	 christenings,	 and	 most	 likely	 just	 once	 a	 year	 for
Christmas.	 But	 that	 is	 clearly	 not	 what	 has	 happened.	 The	 churches	 have
closed	like	the	pubs	and	these	buildings	have	had	to	be	put	to	other	uses.
Although	 the	 pretence	 remains	 that	 the	 mosque-going,	 teetotal	 arrivals
constitute	a	seamless	transition	of	native	traditions,	from	such	visible	aspects
of	identity	it	is	obvious	that	the	results	will	be	very	different.	And	the	causes
that	lie	behind	such	differences	are	the	harder	ones	to	deal	with.	The	same
story	and	the	same	silence	can	be	applied	to	the	Turkish	and	North	African
suburbs	 of	 Amsterdam,	 the	 suburbs	 of	 Brussels	 like	 Molenbeek,	 areas	 of
Berlin	such	as	Wedding	and	Neukölln,	and	any	number	of	other	cities	across
the	continent.	In	each	case	the	price	that	local	people	were	made	to	pay,	for
taking	anything	but	the	most	positive	attitude	towards	the	arrival	into	their
towns	and	cities	of	hundreds	of	thousands	of	people	from	another	culture,
was	just	too	high.	Whole	careers	not	only	in	politics,	but	in	any	walk	of	life,
could	be	ruined	by	any	recognition	of	the	new	facts,	never	mind	any	proposed
alteration	 to	 them.	 And	 so	 the	 only	 thing	 left	 for	 people	 to	 do	 –	 whether
locals,	officials	or	politicians	–	was	to	ignore	the	problem	and	lie	about	it.
In	 time	 both	 politicians	 and	 the	 public	 began	 to	 favour	 the	 wilfully
optimistic	version	of	events.	So	a	minor	or	unimportant	cultural	trait	–	such
as	queuing	or	complaining	about	the	weather	in	Britain	–	would	be	picked	up
on	 and	 run	 with.	 The	 fact	 that	 a	 particular	 immigrant	 enjoyed	 queuing	 or
talking	 about	 the	 weather	 would	 be	 used	 as	 a	 demonstration	 that	 this
immigrant	–	and	by	extension	all	immigrants	–	had	become	as	integrated	as
anybody	else.	After	the	suicide	bombers	of	the	July	2005	attacks	on	London
Transport	were	identified	as	British-born	Muslims,	it	was	discovered	that	one
of	them	had	worked	in	a	fish-and-chip	shop	and	had	played	cricket.	Much
was	made	of	this,	as	though	the	hijacking	of	this	perfectly	English	individual
by	 a	 terrible	 hatred	 remained	 the	 main	 mystery.	 The	 idea	 that	 an	 entire
culture	had	been	transmitted	to	him	through	the	medium	of	fish	and	chips
was	a	way	to	delay	facing	up	to	the	unpleasant	discussions	that	lay	beneath.
As	the	multicultural	era	started	to	break	down,	a	scramble	began	to	identify
any	country	where	the	experiment	had	been	working.	During	the	aftermath	of
the	2005	attacks	on	London	the	British	debated	whether	the	model	of	French
laicité	 did	 not	 perhaps	 point	 the	 way	 towards	 dealing	 with	 problems	 of
integration.	Then,	after	the	growing	number	of	home-grown	terrorist	attacks
in	 France,	 there	 was	 a	 discussion	 over	 whether	 perhaps	 the	 Anglo-Saxon
model	had	some	merit.	Meanwhile,	much	of	the	time	Scandinavia	was	held	up
as	 providing	 a	 particular	 solution,	 until	 the	 problems	 of	 those	 countries	 in
turn	 became	 clearer.	 Overall,	 members	 of	 the	 public	 could	 see	 what	 the
policy-makers	could	not,	which	was	that	despite	the	differences	between	these
various	European	countries,	each	one	had	failed	in	turn	to	assimilate	the	new
arrivals.
There	 were	 criticisms	 of	 the	 ‘doughnut’	 planning	 technique	 in	 French
towns	that	seemed	to	keep	the	migrants	to	the	edges	of	the	city.	But	the	same
problems	arose	in	countries	that	had	tried	to	avoid	such	policies.	So	when	a
French	politician	would	criticise	the	‘parallel	communities’	that	had	arisen	in
Britain	because	of	the	British	model,	precisely	the	same	accusation	could	be
made	back	in	his	own	country.13	It	would	seem	that	although	differences	in
planning	 laws	 between	 the	 various	 countries	 of	 Europe	 are	 a	 matter	 of
interest,	 they	 are	 not	 in	 fact	 seismic.	 As	 for	 the	 educational	 systems	 of	 the
various	 countries	 and	 their	 emphasis	 on	 one	 part	 or	 another	 of	 the
curriculum,	these	are	subjects	of	academic	debate.	But	again,	no	one	system
seems	to	have	worked	especially	well	nor	are	any	particularly	more	admirable
than	any	other	when	it	comes	to	the	matter	of	actual	results.
And	so	all	the	time	the	European	brain	has	held	onto	two	contradictory
things.	 The	 first	 is	 the	 dominant	 established	 narrative	 of	 a	 generation:	 that
anyone	in	the	world	can	come	to	Europe	and	become	a	European,	and	that	in
order	to	become	a	European	you	merely	need	to	be	a	person	in	Europe.	The
other	part	of	the	European	brain	has	spent	these	years	watching	and	waiting.
This	part	could	always	recognise	that	the	new	arrivals	were	not	only	coming
in	unprecedented	numbers	but	were	bringing	with	them	customs	that,	if	not
all	unprecedented,	had	certainly	not	existed	in	Europe	for	a	long	time.	The
first	part	of	the	brain	insists	that	the	newcomers	will	assimilate	and	that,	given
time,	even	the	most	hard-to-swallow	aspects	of	the	culture	of	the	new	arrivals
will	become	more	recognisably	European.	Optimism	favours	the	first	part	of
the	 brain.	 Events	 favour	 the	 second,	 which	 increasingly	 begins	 to	 wonder
whether	anyone	has	the	time	for	the	changes	that	are	meant	to	happen.
Nobody	 should	 be	 surprised	 that	 simmering	 under	 all	 this	 are	 darker,
subterranean	 fears.	 Nowhere	 are	 these	 more	 pronounced	 than	 in	 France
which,	in	the	aftermath	of	the	Second	World	War,	suffered	the	same	labour
shortages	 as	 other	 Western	 European	 countries.	 The	 country	 responded	 in
precisely	 the	 same	 way,	 opening	 its	 borders	 to	 workers	 from	 around	 the
world.	 In	 the	 1950s	 and	 1960s,	 as	 the	 effects	 of	 French	 decolonisation	 in
North	Africa	were	felt,	it	became	as	impossible	for	France	to	stop	the	inflow	of
people	from	its	former	colonies	as	Britain	and	other	countries	had	found	in
their	 turn.	 And	 the	 influx	 of	 largely	 poor	 and	 ill-educated	 manual	 workers
gradually	changed	the	culture	and	appearance	of	swathes	of	France,	as	it	did
elsewhere.
One	subterranean	response	to	this	–	a	response	that	the	French	philosopher
Bernard	Henri-Lévy	has	posited	as	the	country’s	‘dark	specialism’14	–	was	a
concern	about	population	replacement.	With	the	largest	Muslim	population
per	capita	anywhere	in	Western	Europe	and	the	perpetually	looming	electoral
threat	to	the	established	parties	from	the	Le	Pen	family’s	Front	National,	the
boundaries	of	this	discussion	and	the	expression	of	any	such	concerns	were
policed	as	assiduously	as	anywhere	else	in	Europe.	Yet	it	was	in	France	that
one	of	the	most	discomfiting	and	prophetic	treatments	of	this	fear	emerged.
THE	‘DARK	SPECIALISM’
In	1973	a	strange	novel	appeared	in	France	that	swiftly	became	a	best-seller.
The	 author	 of	 Le	 Camp	 des	 Saints	 (The	 Camp	 of	 the	 Saints)	 was	 already
known	as	a	travel	writer	and	novelist.	Well-travelled,	cultured	and	curious,	his
vision	for	this	most	notorious	work	came	to	him	one	morning	in	his	home	on
the	shores	of	the	Mediterranean.	In	his	own	words,	that	morning	in	1972	he
saw	a	vision	of	‘A	million	poor	wretches,	armed	only	with	their	weakness	and
their	numbers,	overwhelmed	by	misery,	encumbered	with	starving	brown	and
black	children,	ready	to	disembark	on	our	soil,	the	vanguard	of	the	multitudes
pressing	hard	against	every	part	of	the	tired	and	overfed	West.	I	literally	saw
them,	saw	the	major	problem	they	presented,	a	problem	absolutely	insoluble
by	our	present	moral	standards.	To	let	them	in	would	destroy	us.	To	reject
them	would	destroy	them.’15
The	novel	that	Jean	Raspail	spent	the	next	eighteen	months	writing	was	set
at	some	point	in	the	coming	decades	and	depicted	a	France	–	and	Europe	–	in
the	process	of	being	swamped	by	mass	migration	from	the	third	world.	The
general	 catalyst	 for	 the	 migration	 is	 the	 growing	 disparity	 between	 the
numbers	of	poverty-stricken	people	in	the	third	world	and	the	diminishing
percentage	 of	 the	 world’s	 population	 living	 in	 the	 comparative	 paradise	 of
Europe.	 With	 modern	 communications	 media,	 word	 of	 this	 disparity	 is	 no
longer	 possible	 to	 hide	 and	 the	 third	 world	 turns	 to	 Europe.	 One	 million
people	set	sail	in	a	fleet	of	boats,	but	all	the	time	untold	millions	are	watching
and	waiting	to	get	on	boats	themselves.	Everything	depends	on	the	reaction	of
Europe	 to	 this	 first	 million.	 For	 strategic	 political	 reasons	 (as	 he	 later
explained)	Raspail	chose	to	make	the	migration	come	not	from	North	Africa
but	from	Calcutta,	and	head	from	there	towards	the	French	Riviera.
The	 novel’s	 memorable	 opening	 presents	 an	 elderly,	 cultured	 professor
sitting	in	his	house	on	the	south	coast	of	France,	listening	to	Mozart	as	the
armada	is	landing.	He	thinks	he	is	alone,	as	the	ensuing	anarchy	has	already
caused	the	local	population	to	flee.	However,	a	young	hippy-ish	man	invades
his	 study.	 He	 is	 glorying	 in	 the	 ‘new’	 country	 that	 is	 going	 to	 emerge,	 a
country	that	will	be	‘born	all	over’.	And	the	young	man	instructs	the	professor
that	he	is	‘through.	Dried	up.	You	keep	thinking	and	talking,	but	there’s	no
more	time	for	that.	It’s	over.	So	beat	it!’	For	his	part	the	professor	accepts	that
the	young	man	may	be	right:	‘My	world	won’t	live	past	morning,	more	than
likely,	and	I	fully	intend	to	enjoy	its	final	moments.’	And	so	he	shoots	the
young	man.16
In	 Raspail’s	 novel	 the	 specific	 catalyst	 for	 the	 mass	 migration	 is	 an
announcement	from	the	Belgian	government	that	it	will	admit	some	young
children	from	the	third	world	who	are	in	need.	Soon	mothers	are	thrusting
their	young	through	the	consul	general’s	gates	in	Calcutta.	Belgium	tries	to
reverse	the	policy	but	by	then	it	is	too	late.	A	crowd	storms	the	consulate,
trampling	the	consul	general	to	death.	From	the	crowd	a	hideously	deformed
leader	 emerges	 who	 calls	 for	 the	 people	 of	 the	 third	 world	 to	 advance	 on
Europe:	‘The	nations	are	rising	from	the	four	corners	of	the	earth	and	their
number	is	like	the	sand	of	the	sea,’	he	says.	‘They	will	march	up	over	the	broad
earth	and	surround	the	camp	of	the	saints	and	the	beloved	city	…’17	The	last
is	a	quote	from	the	Apocalypse	of	St	John	the	Divine	–	a	quotation	that	also
finds	its	way	into	the	novel’s	epigraph.	It	is	an	apt	quotation,	for	the	novel	is
indeed	apocalyptic.
It	is	also	deeply	unpleasant.	The	messianic	figure	who	leads	the	third	world
onto	the	great	armada	that	takes	them	to	Europe	is	a	‘turd-eater’,	monstrously
deformed	and	monstrously	depicted.	Elsewhere	the	great	sea	of	humanity	is
almost	 uniformly	 equally	 grotesque,	 its	 poverty	 unforgivable	 and	 its
uncleanliness	endemic.	It	is	not	hard	to	see	why	Raspail’s	novel	was	swiftly
and	 almost	 unanimously	 dismissed	 by	 the	 critics	 as	 a	 racist	 tract.	 But	 its
uncomfortable	 precision,	 not	 least	 its	 depiction	 of	 the	 failure	 of	 European
society	once	the	migration	begins,	saves	it	from	being	only	that.
In	the	wake	of	the	threat	to	the	French	Republic	every	arm	of	the	state	–	like
its	European	neighbours	–	buckles.	When	it	is	clear	that	the	armada	is	on	the
way	and	that	France	will	be	overwhelmed	not	by	force	but	by	people	simply
landing	 peaceably	 on	 their	 beaches,	 everybody	 fails	 in	 their	 own	 particular
way.	 The	 politicians	 dither,	 incapable	 of	 working	 out	 what	 their	 attitude
should	be	and	flipping	wildly	between	attempts	to	accept	the	armada	and	their
ideas	of	how	to	scupper	it.	When	some	of	the	French	military	are	ordered	to
torpedo	 the	 boats,	 they	 refuse	 to	 obey	 orders.	 Meantime	 the	 leaders	 of	 the
Church,	weighed	down	by	the	guilt	of	their	own	worldly	wealth,	urge	that	the
doors	of	France	be	opened.	And	all	the	time	celebrities	and	media	stars	polish
and	preen	their	reputations	in	front	of	the	media	by	depicting	this	moment
only	as	a	wonderful	opportunity.	Perhaps	aware	that	any	other	ending	would
have	made	his	novel	even	more	unacceptable,	in	the	end	Raspail	allows	the
armada	to	land.	France	does	not	repel	them.
Despite	 being	 a	 best-seller	 in	 France,	 a	 cordon	 sanitaire	 was	 imposed
around	the	novel	by	French	critics,	and	so	The	Camp	of	the	Saints	sank	in
plain	 sight.	 In	 the	 ensuing	 decades	 a	 number	 of	 translations	 of	 the	 novel
appeared	 but	 these	 tended	 to	 be	 issued	 by	 small	 publishing	 wings	 of	 anti-
immigration	 organisations.	 Yet	 in	 spite	 of	 its	 nearly	 unreadable	 luridness,
something	about	the	book	stuck	in	the	subterranean	portion	of	the	European
conversation.	 Whatever	 its	 critical	 or	 publishing	 fate,	 Raspail’s	 dystopian
vision	of	the	European	future	–	described	by	two	writers	at	The	Atlantic	in
1994	as	‘one	of	the	most	disturbing	novels	of	the	late	twentieth	century’18	–
had	an	uncomfortable	habit	of	bobbing	back	to	the	surface,	and	occasionally
breaking	above	it.
In	1985	Raspail	made	a	rare	return	to	a	theme	of	his	novel	in	an	article	for
Le	Figaro	 Magazine.	 The	 front-page	 article,	 co-authored	 with	 the	 respected
demographer	Gérard	François	Dumont,	asked	‘Will	France	still	be	French	in
2015?’19	The	cover	image	was	of	Marianne,	France’s	national	symbol,	covered
with	a	Muslim	veil.	The	article	itself	argued,	with	reference	to	demographic
projections,	 that	 ongoing	 immigration	 and	 the	 disproportionate	 population
growth	among	the	existing	immigrant	communities	meant	that	France’s	non-
European	 population	 would	 soon	 grow	 to	 endanger	 the	 survival	 of	 the
country’s	culture	and	values.
The	piece	was	leaped	upon	with	relish.	Government	ministers	queued	up	to
publicly	denounce	the	article.	Georgina	Dufoix,	the	Minister	of	Social	Affairs,
called	 the	 article	 ‘reminiscent	 of	 the	 wildest	 Nazi	 theories’.	 The	 Culture
Minister,	Jack	Lang,	called	Le	Figaro	Magazine	‘an	organ	of	racist	propaganda’
and	 said	 the	 article	 was	 ‘grotesque	 and	 ridiculous’,	 while	 Prime	 Minister
Laurent	Fabius	told	the	French	Parliament,	‘Immigrants	have	contributed	in
large	 part	 to	 the	 richness	 of	 France.	 Those	 who	 have	 been	 manipulating
immigration	 statistics	 are	 going	 counter	 to	 our	 country’s	 genuine	 national
interest.’20	Dufoix’s	ministry	released	its	own	figures	to	try	to	counter	those	of
the	article.	Among	other	things	they	claimed	that	Raspail	and	Dumont	had
exaggerated	the	possible	future	demographics	because	they	had	assumed	that
immigrant	birth	rates	would	continue	to	be	high	and	that	native	birth	rates
would	 continue	 to	 be	 low.	 Raspail	 and	 Dumont’s	 projection	 interestingly
assumed	an	ongoing	annual	net	migration	into	France	of	59,000	people.	In
fact,	according	to	the	official	French	figures,21	by	1989	the	number	of	asylum-
seekers	alone	had	reached	62,000	(a	threefold	increase	from	the	start	of	that
decade).	By	2006	annual	net	migration	into	France	had	reached	193,000.	By
2013	that	figure	had	risen	to	235,000	(assisting	a	population	rise	of	2.6	million
in	just	eight	years).22	Perhaps	most	controversially	the	authors	of	the	Figaro
piece	predicted	that	by	2015	Islam	would	be	the	most	important	religion	in
France.
In	a	1985	reprint	of	his	most	famous	book	Raspail	reiterated	that	he	both
understood	and	felt	the	central	contradiction	that	would	lead	to	his	prophecy
in	The	Camp	of	the	Saints	coming	true.	Faced	with	the	choice	of	opening	the
door	or	slamming	it	in	the	face	of	the	disadvantaged	of	the	world:	‘What’s	to
be	 done,	 since	 no	 one	 would	 wish	 to	 renounce	 his	 own	 human	 dignity	 by
acquiescing	to	racism?	What’s	to	be	done	since,	simultaneously,	all	persons
and	 all	 nations	 have	 the	 sacred	 right	 to	 preserve	 their	 differences	 and
identities,	in	the	name	of	their	own	future	and	their	own	past?’23
In	2001	a	boat	packed	with	Kurdish	refugees	from	Iraq	came	aground	on	a
beach	 in	 the	 south	 of	 France	 at	 4	 o’clock	 one	 morning.	 Among	 the	 1,500
people	on	the	boat	some	walked	ashore	and	began	to	knock	on	the	houses	of
locals.	 As	 chance	 would	 have	 it,	 the	 boat	 landed	 only	 50	 metres	 from	 the
house	on	the	Riviera	from	which	Raspail	had	written	his	novel	almost	three
decades	 earlier.	 Another	 ten	 years	 later	 and	 mainstream	 media	 were
conceding	 a	 certain	 prophetic	 strain	 to	 The	 Camp	 of	 the	 Saints.	 On	 the
occasion	of	yet	another	republication	of	the	novel	the	then	86-year-old	author
appeared	on	the	television	programme	Ce	Soir	(ou	jamais!)	on	France	3	in	a
strikingly	lenient	interview	in	which	the	author	suggested	that	perhaps	some
of	the	broad	outlines	of	the	book	were	no	longer	as	controversial	as	they	had
once	been.	Reminded	of	the	2001	landing	he	referred	to	it	as	‘a	sign’.	The	sole
thing	 he	 conceded	 that	 he	 had	 got	 wrong	 in	 his	 vision	 of	 the	 boat	 people
coming	across	was	the	numbers.	It	is	true,	he	conceded,	‘Currently	there	is	no
fleet	with	a	million	people.’	This	was	in	February	2011.
Long	before	2015	the	controversial	and	denounced	vision	of	Jean	Raspail
was	one	that	people	across	Europe	had	intuited.	Even	before	the	media	started
showing	daily	footage	of	the	boats	coming	in	and	phalanxes	of	young	men
from	the	third	world	trudging	up,	through	and	across	the	continent	by	foot,
he	had	tapped	into	a	fear	that	already	existed.	And	if	this	particular	fear	–	this
‘dark	specialism’	–	seemed	to	have	arisen	most	seriously	in	France,	it	was	not
confined	there.	Politicians	and	cultural	figures	at	the	time,	and	for	decades
afterwards,	seemed	certain	about	how	to	control	this.	Any	and	all	such	fears
could	be	responded	to	by	a	simultaneous	dismissal	and	pandering.	So	at	the
same	time	that	French	politicians	derided	the	vision	of	Raspail	as	racist	and
without	 foundation,	 they	 competed	 with	 each	 other	 to	 be	 tougher	 in	 their
rhetoric	 on	 how	 they	 would	 limit	 the	 flow	 of	 migrants	 and	 increase
repatriations.	 For	 years	 even	 –	 perhaps	 especially	 –	 the	 country’s	 socialist
politicians	participated	in	this	game.
Whether	they	realised	it	or	not	they	were	responsible	for	bringing	a	crisis	to
bear	 on	 their	 country.	 Every	 year	 the	 facts	 changed.	 Every	 year	 the	 same
political	class,	through	successive	governments	of	every	stripe,	continued	to
see	 an	 ever	 greater	 upsurge	 of	 the	 foreign-born	 population	 of	 France.
Throughout	 this	 process	 the	 official	 statistics	 continued	 to	 cover	 over	 the
change	 that	 politicians	 said	 was	 not	 happening	 but	 which	 the	 population
could	see	with	their	own	eyes.	This	was	not	all	badly	intentioned.	Thanks	to
an	old	law	intended	to	prevent	any	future	Vichyite	possibilities,	throughout
the	1970s,	1980s	and	1990s	the	Republic	collected	neither	ethnic,	racial	nor
religious	numbers	for	the	make-up	of	the	French	population.	During	the	mid-
2000s	the	law	in	France	relaxed.	But	analysis	of	the	existing	population,	never
mind	 projections	 about	 future	 demographics,	 remained	 a	 fraught	 political
matter	in	France	more	than	in	almost	any	other	country.	Even	as	the	Muslim
population	rocketed	towards	being	the	highest	per	capita	in	Europe,	and	only
expected	to	grow	in	the	years	ahead,	any	demographer	in	France	who	did	not
understate	all	future	population	changes	would	be	tarred	with	the	brush	of
assisting	 the	 far	 right.	 For	 instance,	 one	 highly	 respected	 demographer,
Michèle	Tribalat,	had	her	professional	reputation	badly	tarnished	when	the
‘well-connected’	demographer	Hervé	Le	Bras	dismissed	her	as	‘the	National
Front	darling’.24
It	is	easy	to	assume	that	the	facts	don’t	lie.	But	in	immigration	statistics,	let
alone	demographic	projections,	they	often	do	–	and	nowhere	more	so	than	in
France.	 It	 can	 hardly	 be	 a	 surprise	 that	 in	 a	 country	 where	 the	 facts	 have
become	so	malleable,	portions	of	the	population	might	believe	their	eyes	over
the	 statistics,	 with	 consequences	 that	 have	 yet	 to	 be	 imagined.	 Raspail	 and
Dumont	were	not	correct	in	their	1985	prediction	that	in	2015	Islam	would	be
the	dominant	religion	in	France.	At	least	not	numerically	speaking.	An	Ipsos
poll	 released	 by	 France’s	 leading	 liberal	 publication,	 L’Obs,	 on	 4	 February
2016	 revealed	 that	 among	 high-school	 students	 in	 France	 33.2	 per	 cent
identified	as	Christian	whereas	25.5	per	cent	identified	as	Muslim.	But	nobody
could	any	longer	deny	that	in	France	it	was	Islam	that	had	the	wind	in	its	sails.
The	same	poll	revealed	that	less	than	half	of	the	non-Muslims	surveyed	(and
just	22	per	cent	of	Catholics)	described	their	religion	as	‘something	important
or	very	important’	to	them.	Conversely,	among	young	Muslims	83	per	cent
said	their	religion	was	‘important	or	very	important’	to	them.25
And,	of	course,	the	one	million	people	Raspail	had	prophesied	would	come
was	an	underestimation.	The	numbers	when	they	came,	not	on	huge	ships	but
in	 flotillas	 of	 countless	 small	 boats,	 carried	 numbers	 far	 in	 excess	 of	 his
dystopian	 vision.	 And	 this	 was	 before	 the	 migration	 crisis.	 By	 the	 time	 the
crisis	began	in	earnest,	France	was	already	taking	in	that	number	of	people
every	few	years.	The	official	figures	said	that	legal	immigration	into	France
was	 at	 200,000	 a	 year,	 but	 around	 a	 similar	 number	 were	 believed	 to	 be
entering	the	country	each	year	illegally.	In	private	some	French	officials	will
quietly	admit	that	the	only	reason	they	have	managed	to	avoid	German	levels
of	 immigration	 over	 recent	 years	 is	 the	 widespread	 perception	 among
migrants	that	France	is	a	racist	and	unwelcoming	country.	It	is	a	reputation
that	even	the	most	left-wing	officials	do	not	find	unhelpful	to	have	at	times
such	as	these.
While	in	2015	Marianne	was	not	covered	in	the	Muslim	veil,	the	country
had	seen	things	Raspail	had	never	predicted	even	in	his	worst	nightmares.	He
would	 never	 have	 considered	 portraying	 Muslim	 captains	 on	 numerous
migrant	boats	in	the	Mediterranean	hurling	Christian	passengers	overboard
because	of	their	faith.	He	would	never	have	dared	to	record	some	incomers
slitting	a	priest’s	throat	at	the	height	of	the	Mass.	Nor	would	even	he	have
predicted	that	on	a	Sunday	morning	in	2016	in	Saint-Denis,	while	the	priests
were	 inside	 celebrating	 Mass	 for	 the	 remaining	 congregation,	 those	 priests
and	the	tombs	of	the	French	kings	had	to	be	guarded	from	outside	by	multiple
heavily	armed	soldiers.	Not	for	the	first	time	in	Europe,	the	worst	prophets	of
doom	turned	out	to	have	understated	their	case.