Fascists who attacked a "fascist"
Robert Ménard was physically assaulted on 5 May by far-left activists while on his way to a conference in the Gironde on the rapprochement between the right and the extreme right. The mayor of Béziers has accused the "premises" of the Socialist Party, the Modem and the Republic on the march of having "encouraged" its aggressors.
They had come, they were all there, in gangs of convergents in struggle, all ensem-blue-yeah in the rejection of the other, coagulated under the banners of the intolerance to the diversity of the ideas, gathered in a deafening song of the partisans of the twenty-fifth hour, like an army of shadows of fire their resistant ancestors, to the painful sounds of the pots, rameutés in spite of their dissonance by their parties, rebellious or of government, with a single slogan, that that republicans self-proclaimed continue to bawl long after the death of Francois and Franco: it will not pass.
Slack, soft slack
In the front row, so that no slap was lost, there was what was left of the plural left, Europe ecology the greens of rage, these ecologists who had lost everything, brought back to the groupuscular state of their origins for giving up the small birds and regularized the undocumented, followed closely by the Socialists, brought back to the back of the pack for having abandoned the workers and dredged the diversity, and all did not support that it remains popular and plebiscite, this elected handily, who did not lose the confidence and esteem of his fellow citizens, that modest populist who had been elected and would probably be re-elected by practicing this electoralism that was abhorrent to them and that consisted in listening to people, responding to their requests, to the desperate expectations of those ungrateful voters who were the cause of their defeats, of their collapses, of their collapses, to them, the misunderstood of the avant-garde on the way to sparition, who had done so much and defeated to educate the masses, and to teach them to live together the impossible, even if they had not asked for it.
A little further, but not too much to distribute blows, there were moderates of Modem, those whom the extremes and adventurism frighten, weighted by principle, lukewarm by constitution, timorous of the happy medium, these humanist soft and soft balls of knee, a little lost without their guru, long forebearing father of the nation but remained mayor of Lourdes, out of the radar and soon erased memories, cleared by another neither right nor left, another above the parties, a president a little different and at the same time a little similar since both were united in the daring fight they were conducting to save France from the dangers that threaten it, that is to say, to hear them, the status of civil servants and the thickness of the labor code, and in a fierce determination to apply European directives. There they were the centrists, who could not be distinguished from the other cowards, determined to show that they had some, resolved to fight the "fascist", one hundred to one.
Unwilling to courage
Like younger clones, as substitutes for old-fashioned centrists, there were the macronnards, the Republicans marching in quick pace, in close ranks against a France that was to disappear, and against the one who was the emblem, the one who planned to save it from a deregulation on the march towards competition without borders, this war of the workers between them to the profits and the profits of the small malignant of the globalization, against the one who wanted to preserve it of a progress on the way to a marriage without parity and a homoparental family recomposed in the test tube, against the one who sought to protect it from a third world on the march towards the disappearance of its civilization, the French civilization, and of this replacement of French culture by the crowning of cultures in France by sparing him that French suicide for which the walkers and walkers had convinced the French to vote. They also shouted, those whom the local branch of their government party had mobilized, against a certain idea of France defended by this Frenchman to defeat, and for a certain idea of the People's Court and justice in the street. while despite threats of public disorder and security risks for a quiet, unassuming, oblivious and innocent elected official, the state and the police were nowhere.
Attracted by the smell of blood in perspective, there were also the rebellious, came in number for a stoning participatory and citizen, with their beautiful heads of winners, their faded mines of failed academics, their flashy sweats of intermittent embittered. Among the youngest, some of them were tattooed and pierced, as is the custom in tribes who adhere to the counter-culture of indelible ugliness. These 93 revolutionaries who had no more bastilles to take had urgent desires scaffold. They formed the bulk of the herd of hyenas, who attack in packs and traitors, who strike from behind an easy prey, isolated, weakened. They were the noisy majority of what is still called the left. Bursting with contradictions and approximations but never held back by doubt, they had preferred to ride on the great horses of the fight against racism and homophobia and lead the charge against a single man rather than be disturbed by the relevance of Marxism. and its reserve armies of capitalism or the patriotism of Jaures and his nation, the sole patrimony of those who have none. For these internationalists who were stupid, benevolent and stubborn, the state was not protective but police, the borders were not bulwarks but impeded to join hands for all the guys in the world. Unwilling to learn anything about courage, righteousness and honor, they consecrated once again, in violence and joy, the sinking of the left in the agitated and muddy waters of leftism.
The return of dark hours
On May 5, in Saint-André-de-Cubzac in the Gironde, socialist Jacobins and liberal federalists, proclaimed Democrats and totalitarian sympathizers had formed a conspiracy of the immigrationists and gathered in the camp of the Good, where the end justify the means, a small world not very glorious in the jubilation of caning. These comrades of lynching had managed to overcome their differences to silence a dangerous man, came without his tricolor scarf but decided to cut with scissors cordon sanitary patiently braided with intimidation and blackmail to racism to usher in a rapprochement of the rights, in saying to his political friends: "Fewer parties, more union," and to reconcile a right of the notables who kept on mouthing and a populist right that kept doing more to separate band. Robert Menard probably did not wait, delivered to the anti-fascist hysteria, that imposes so strikingly the urgency of not leaving the country in the hands of this bawdy and threatening bunch.
The photo of the scene is hard to watch. It inevitably reminds us of these archive images taken in the darkest hours of our history, but it bears two news, good and bad. The good is the conclusion to which we bring the spectacle of this violence: if these French without fear and without reproaches treat Robert Ménard as an enemy, it is probably because they feel that they lose in the opinion the battle of ideas, that they lose the people and that they lose their footing. The bad thing is that public service journalists like the comics of resistance may not be entirely wrong when they announce that the thirties are back, even if they do not come back by whom they believe to see them back .