Étiquette : Weakened West

The empty niche

In a mosque the nearest thing to an altar is the mihrab: a recess in the qibla wall, oriented toward Mecca, and empty. Nothing is placed there. The worshipper turns toward a hollow. God, in this arrangement, is not among us. He is elsewhere.

The name used for that elsewhere is often translated as if it were a proper name. It is not. Allah means the divinity—an abstract noun, not a person addressed. The mihrab follows from the grammar: a function, not a face.

A European church still standing—stone, gilt, an altar that has not been removed—presents the reverse case. The furniture of the sacred has survived the faith that once justified it. The two vacancies are not the same. One of them still gathers a people and tells them where to stand.

In 1982 Roger Garaudy entered Islam. He was sixty-nine. He had been a theorist of the French Communist Party, a Resistant, a deputy. He took the name Ragaa and said that Islam “inhabits our future.” The sentence is remembered because it sounds like a conversion. It reads, in retrospect, more like a verdict on the room he had just left. Philip Rieff, two decades later, gave that room a description.

Rieff’s third world

Culture, in Rieff’s sense, is not a lifestyle. It is the expression of a sacred order. His last book, My Life Among the Deathworks (2006), follows that order through three successive “worlds.”

In the ancient Greco-Roman world, spiritual powers above man and below him enclosed him in a cosmic order, which then became a social order under the general name of fate. In Christian monotheism the reading of symbols grew finer and, at the same time, more exacting. Fate gave way to faith: the permanent struggle of a man to remain inside the divine order.

The third culture is forming in front of us. Its difference from the first two is not a matter of degree. For the first time in human history, Rieff writes, cultural elites are attempting to build a social order without a sacred order—or rather, against any sacred order. The experiment, he insists, has no precedent.

R. R. Reno, reviewing the book in the Intercollegiate Review, observed that the new civilisation proposes to impose on the whole of humanity remedies that have never been tested. Its principles reduce to three statements.

Every prohibition is prohibited. Every repression must be repressed. The only truth is that there is no truth.

What remains at the bottom of that nihilism is hedonism. It would be futile to build a civilisation on it, or to defend one with it. Hedonism attracts interests. It is not a source of authority. It is nihilism in a lighter dose. Restaurant advertisements can do nothing against the vigour of Islamic protest.

The inability of secular social democracy to resist an Islamic cultural advance is no longer a hypothesis. It has been visible, city by city, for a generation. Stripped of the Christian substance that once underwrote them, the very principles European intellectuals still invoke in self-defence—democracy, progress, free expression, the comforts of the welfare state—turn into solvents. They corrode the identities they were meant to protect. That inversion was understood early by those who had a reason to look for it. “Asymmetric warfare,” including the political use of migration, did not require a new theory of the West. It required only that the West continue to talk itself out of the right to refuse.

An active power

The force of the advance does not rest only on the weakness of the adversary. There is an effective power, an active one, intrinsic to the Islamic message, which makes it peculiarly fitted to take possession of a civilisational body already hollowed by nihilism.

That fitness has a foundation. Muhammad destroying the idols of the Kaaba is the advent of an abstract monotheism: the visible symbols of the divine are swept from the earth and replaced by the disciplinary worship of what cannot be seen. The prohibition of images is not a detail of taste. It is a scorched-earth policy in the spiritual realm. What remains to attest a divine presence is the auditory call of an abstract noun. In the mosque, the equivalent of the altar is still the mihrab—an empty recess, designating a divinity eternally absent and out of reach.

Islam rests first on a body of community rules. Christianity, even when it builds cathedrals and crowns kings, aims at a personal and individual intimacy with God that no code can replace. The two religions do not organise the same kind of person. Surface analysis treats the difference as a matter of doctrine. It is a matter of form. A Europe that has kept individuals and rights, and lost the disciplines that once held them together, will find in the umma a shape it no longer possesses. Residual Christianity, reduced to private sentiment, has none to offer.

This is why a vacated West does not remain vacant. In a world already emptied, the disciplinary worship of the invisible is not a curiosity. It is an offer. Islam becomes, for a growing number, the only religion that still looks viable.

Garaudy

A word first on the man, because the name is not innocent. Late in life Garaudy became a Holocaust denier and was condemned for it in France. That fact is not a parenthesis. It disqualifies him as a guide. What follows uses only the sequence of his allegiances—Catholic youth, Marxist militancy, Islam—as a European document. The document is ugly. It is also legible.

The stations can be told quickly. Protestant household, early Catholic zeal, a doctorate in 1936, then the PCF, where he spent years trying to marry Marxism to a language of “humanism.” Imprisoned during the war for Resistance work. After the Liberation: the Assembly, a certain eminence, conversations with Sartre. In 1968 he broke with Moscow over Czechoslovakia; in 1970 the Party expelled him. He did not go back to the Church. He went looking for a synthesis that historical materialism had stopped providing. Twelve years later he was a Muslim.

The writings that followed; L’Islam habite notre avenir among them; repeat a single claim: Islam refuses the split between the sacred and the profane. The interest of the claim is not its originality. It is the vacancy it presupposes. The mid-century PCF had treated religion as alienation and the Church as an obstacle to be cleared. It cleared more than it intended. When the Soviet myth collapsed, a portion of the European Left found itself with the old indictment of the market still in its mouth and no Absolute left to serve. Political Islam arrived carrying that indictment, and a Law. Garaudy is what the substitution looks like when it happens to a French philosopher who has run out of dialectics.

Sayyid Qutb had already drawn the diagram in Milestones (1964), from a Cairo prison rather than a Paris study: Western materialism as a condition to be fled, the umma as the form that replaces class struggle. The sequence resembles a Hegelian movement only if one forgets the direction. There is a thesis and an antithesis. There is no liberation at the end of it.

Apparition, not presence

Christianity holds a people together by a claim the contemporary West repeats with increasing embarrassment: that God was here, in flesh, as brother and equal. There is a chosen people, attesting through history the continuity of prophecy and a dialogue that does not close. The image is not an offence against the divine; it is one of the forms in which the divine accepted to be seen.

Islam orders the world around a God who does not accept that proximity. In its teaching God has never been among us. What the older covenants took for presence was, at most, an apparition—noble, if one wishes, but an apparition. The cycle of prophecy is finished. God spoke last to Muhammad and will not speak again until the end of time. What breaks the silence is the call from the minaret, assembling a humanity before an Eternal Absent who, set against the nothingness of the earth, becomes the only Present.

Lā ilāha illā Allāh. There is no god but God. Everything else is, strictly speaking, non-existent. Only God exists, ungraspable and without body. On the other side, Nothingness.

In East and West (1924), René Guénon; already a Muslim; left the West three roads: the recovery of the Christian tradition; a descent into barbarism and ethnic conflict without end; or a general Islamisation. The secularist who believes he is holding a fourth position is not. He is preparing the second, until the third presents itself as a rescue.

The first of those roads is not a metaphor and not a museum. It runs through the old European synthesis of faith and reason—the one Aquinas made explicit—and through the ordinary work of transmission: liturgy, schools, a Church that still dares a prohibition. A presence, not a procedure. Evangelisation is part of that work, not a humanitarian afterthought. Without it, Guénon’s remaining two roads are not alternatives. They are stages.

Garaudy, who had no claim to foresight, wrote after his conversion that the future is not written but calls to be inhabited. The tenant he named was the wrong one. The vacancy he had noticed was not.

Borders, remigration, the recovery of a political capacity to refuse: none of that is optional, and none of it, by itself, puts anything back on the altar. A civilisation that has forbidden every prohibition can still pass a statute. A statute is not yet an authority. Authority of that kind is sacred, or it is merely administration. Europe’s sacred order has a name, and it is not a “value.”

A culture that believes in nothing is not argued out of its vacancy. It is occupied by whoever still believes in something, and has kept the means to organise it.

Antoine Bachelin Sena is a French author and strategic risk analyst. He studies institutional vulnerabilities and challenges to sovereignty while defending the principles summarized by the formula “God, Country, Family, Liberty” as the traditional foundations of ordered liberty and state sovereignty.