The concrete barrenness of la Défense to the west of Paris is not alleviated by the symbolism of the massive geometric square with a hole in it facing the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. A fantasy of the ex-Président who attacked the Muslims on account of their multiple marriages but who himself kept a wife and discretely a mistress. It is a monument to usury, the high rise buildings spiraling upwards in tune with the numbers multiplication of the finance houses’ computers. But where are the 150,000 people who are supposed to work here and where even the 20,000 who are supposed to live here? Decreasing rents indicate the malaise of la Défense’s housing market.
Hollande has the same problem, perhaps he will build high rises.
It is almost with relief that we finally find the mosque, which is not marked on any of the detailed maps available from the information centres. A relief from the architectural tyranny, symbolism and abstract artistry of le complexe. A relief issuing from the initial sighting only however, of this construct of human proportions – down there it lay in the shadow of Société Générale’s towers, the ‘mosque’, wedged between the car park and the cemetery, a big, shabby, off-white tented affair with portakabin toilets – a completion of the symbolism. Very indéfense. We were told that the Muslims working in Société Générale had been ‘generously granted’ the space by their employees. They did not seem to be aware of the caste cannibale in whose shadow they were worshipping the Lord of the Worlds.
The Central Mosque in contrast, in the centre of Paris, is a beautiful structure of balanced proportions built in the traditional Algerian style. It is full of people – with many non-Muslim Parisians who are welcomed off the streets to get a glimpse of the Muslim salat, the inner courtyards with their gardens and the wood paneled library. The hizb of the Quran according to the recitation of warsh is recited daily after Asr. In one corner is a tea house, with adjacent garden, in which Muslims and non-Muslims mix freely, and a hammam facility.
Even the mosques of the more ‘ghetto’ like quarters of Paris around Bellevue, Barbès and Asnières are vibrant with life, overflowing at the times of the salat and full of the recitation of the Quran. Are not these Parisians with their black, brown and coffee coloured faces the real French? For beneath their colouring is the French language – often no other spoken by the young ‘immigrants’ – and language is the ultimate definition of nationality. The Algerians with their 130 years as a French Département have had time to get to know the real France, to extract the best from it, and to add the blood, sweat and tears of their experience to the reality of being French. The black Africans of West Africa still have a joie de vivre which many white French have lost to their being systematized.
One solution to the dubious high-risers and les scandales would be to recognize multiple marriages. Hardly an adventurous move for a society which within one generation has gone from a vaguely christian critique of sexuality to an active propogation of the lgbt ideology. But a head-ache surely for the first generation of death-tax officials, the avocats skilled in wills and testaments and the celibate bishops. But it would regenerate les Français, increase the population, strengthen family ties, assure the honouring of women, eliminate the hypocrisy of la maîtresse, cool the ardour of the presse jaune and build bridges between North Africa and the Arab world in general. It might unfortunately lead to an increase in Dassault’s weapons sales in the Gulf and Arabia.