In Paris, one could almost swear that the words of Douce France can be heard on every street corner. Despite its simple melody and gentle instrumental sound, hearing it resonate here is chilling. It is almost a warning, so out of step with this sad spectacle of what Paris has become.
First, the thing that strikes the eye: it’s dirty. Extremely dirty. The smell of urine, vomit, tobacco, and cold cannabis, gets down the throat. Every inch of the sidewalk is littered with garbage. The forced quarantine of the country hasn’t helped. No wonder, since Parisians don’t respect it.
Despite the coronavirus, the same unhealthy atmosphere envelops the city. An inexplicable and visceral tension, which says only one thing: “Flee!”
It’s been like this for years in Paris. Apart from the stubborn – or the fanatics, whichever way you look at it – many say that the situation is on the brink of disaster. In 2018, the Yellow Vests had demonstrated there for a long time. But by the time the Black Blocks and other self-proclaimed Antifas joined them, there had been a lot of damage. The Marianne of the Arc de Triomphe is still disfigured, after being beaten with a truncheon by an overzealous protester. Further, on the Ile de la Cité, the torn corpse of Notre-Dame still stands up as it can, valiantly… but for how much longer?
Indeed, Paris has always had a troubled relationship with its past. Haussmann had, without regret, shaved off most of the medieval part during the 19th century. Bastille, though a symbol of France’s republican history, was dismantled, stone by stone, so that only a few cobblestones polished by the years remain today. The Louvre, long a fortress, has been transformed into a stately castle, and a large glass pyramid stands like a shining wart in the middle of its courtyard. The Tuileries Palace was destroyed, only its garden remains today.
How about today? Today, the Paris City Hall marks its mandate by paying contemporary artists a fortune to set up an Anal Plug on the Place Vendôme. A lot of pots and pans are exhibited in the middle of the Galerie des Glaces. Strange fabric creatures, with faces made of knots, hang from the ceiling of Versailles and come to hide the painting of the Coronation of Napoleon. Above all, the Queen’s Vagina spoils the view of the gardens of France’s most famous palace.
The fake and retouched smiles of the candidates for the municipal elections brighten up the walls. Despite the pandemic, the aspiring mayors have deemed it preferable to hold the first round of elections on 15 March 2020. “The coronavirus is not dangerous enough to suspend the smooth running of politics in our country, no reason to worry,” said Prime Minister Édouard Philippe. All this to set up a national lockdown the next day.
Paris, however, did not need a pandemic to be on the verge of the abyss. Everything you look at is hard to see. Remembering the French capital’s pompous nickname almost makes you smile given the situation: The “City of Lights”, which has lost them all.
The Champs Elysees are hard to see. The weekends of constant demonstrations between November 2018 and today mean that many of the shop windows are armored, or otherwise cracked all over. The losses were counted in thousands of euros for the shopkeepers, in millions for the municipality.
“The City of Lights?” It would be more relevant to talk about Flaming City. It blazes with arson, randomly hitting garbage cans, cars, or even buildings for the less fortunate. But the new name of Paris can come from the shots fired by criminals, gangs, terrorists, and other maniacs lurking within the city walls.
Impossible to talk about Paris without mentioning the growing insecurity. In popular neighborhoods and areas of massive immigration, a strange game has taken place. The groups of “young people”, as they are called by the judicial authorities – a term used to describe individuals aged between twelve and nearly forty years old – forcibly take young girls, often minors, and organize collective rapes in the cellars for several hours, or even days.
The girls are mostly European. French women, who in their own country, risk being assaulted in the worst possible way. White French women, considered as “gwer whores”.
This is what happened in 2014 to a young girl, whose name is not known. She was returning home at one o’clock in the morning and was attacked by four young foreigners. Beatings, tear gas, cigarette burns, not to mention the multiple rapes she suffered from one to five in the morning, the victim was chosen because she was French. And the aggressors did not like French women, those Western women whores. “When I get out, I’ll fuck France!” said one of the culprits in police custody.
Journalists who dare to give a voice to these victims of the Paris-led judicial system are muzzled and discredited. They are accused of playing into the hands of populism, of maintaining a “feeling of insecurity”. The facts are discredited to avoid offending feelings. And above all to maintain its brand image, which will be essential for the next campaign.
Of course, Paris is not the only city in France to experience this wildness. The whole country is affected. But Paris shines in this field, as a good and self-respecting “City of Light”, digging its own grave, and dragging the whole country into it.
As irrefutable proof of the degeneration of the French capital, nothing beats the example of Crack Hill. A wasteland in the north of Paris squatted day and night by hundreds of crackheads and other hard drug addicts, one comes across people with a broken destiny, victims of pedophile acts, partygoers who have lost everything after sticking their lips on crack pipes.
Charles Trenet’s song resounds like a funeral oration in the face of this sad spectacle. The last tribute to a France that has been long dead, one that has given birth to a monstrous and perverted creature. A place where the facts don’t matter in the face of the utopias proclaimed by the rulers, where the country’s history is scorned.
At a time when the lockdown is softly applied in certain “sensitive neighborhoods” (rather, genuine No-Go Zones), it is easier to see the extent of the damage in the streets. People walk around, without masks, without anything, spitting on the ground, ignoring health recommendations. Delinquents are not afraid of the disease, this “illness of weak white pigs”. Their flippancy caused a massive concentration of cases – including severe cases – in these no-go areas. The hospitals in Paris are overcrowded, sacrificing the old and chronically ill for the young who have a higher chance of recovery.
Like all other problems in France, it is solved by ignoring it, by making it impossible to quantify. The year 2019 was marked by the dissolution of the ONDRP (National Observatory of Delinquency and Penal Responses). It is therefore currently impossible in France to measure the crime rate in the country. It was already impossible to conduct any kind of survey on the prevalence of certain populations in national delinquency. But suppressing the data is a way to eradicate the problem… Isn’t it?
There’s nothing human left in Paris. The only thing with a bit of life in their eyes is the animals that you can meet while wandering around the city. Alley cats, rats, sometimes even foxes in the parks. You get the impression that they feel sorry for what Parisians go through. But more importantly, what Parisians created. They caused their loss, and it’s only a matter of time before a breath, however faint, will bring down this house of cards that is France.
Once again, Douce France sounds like a cruel morality: France, what have you become?