I have not been a Francophile for many years. France has committed crimes against Jews in the past, and there was a time when it also acted against the State of Israel. But as a Francophone, my connection to French culture is strong, and I love many aspects of France. I also lament its expected transformation into a Muslim state. Islam is spreading demographically, sometimes even striking bloody blows, and no one bothers to fight against it. Here is one example of many cities with irreversible demographics.
North of Arles, on both sides of the Rhône, lies the twin towns of Tarascon and Boquer. Tarascon is mythically linked to the writer Alphonse Douda, and to the novel “The Marvelous Adventures of Tartran of Tarascon” (1872) and its sequels. The character, Tartran, a Provençal “real” like the heroes of Marcel Pagnol, is an inexhaustible protector, a goshawk and a storyteller of hunting expeditions and wonderful animals – just like the heroes of Marseille’s popular folklore. Tarascon, for whom the fictitious Tartran is its symbol and pride, built him a house decorated in the style of the XNUMXs, and recreated scenes from his imaginary life.
But even Alphonse Douda, who always utters absurd things, would not have believed his eyes if he had visited Tarragona and the Boucher, as I had. He would surely have said: “This is exaggerated!” I also could not believe my eyes when I returned to the Boucher, which I have known since my youth, in the spring of 2010. I came from Marles on a Sunday afternoon. The bus stopped at the train station square. On the terraces of the surrounding cafes, I saw only Arabs. I continued along the main boulevard to the gate in the wall of the beautiful medieval quarter. Next to the entrance were eye-catching signs that the quarter was being monitored by video cameras due to recent events. Not encouraging. I did not give up. When I was young in Algiers, I visited the Kasbah, a madcap act in those days of bloody war, and the old men on the doorsteps of the houses signaled to me, with their fingers in the background, that I was “a madman.” I went in: I saw only one Frenchman, hurrying home with a baguette. Apart from him, only North Africans in small groups. Mobile patrols patrolled the alleys, also staffed by North Africans, by the way. I walked quickly, looking in all directions, not exactly quietly, and my alertness allowed me to be impressed by the charm of several charming alleys, beautiful buildings, well-preserved or renovated house facades, and tiny squares. In a winding alley I discovered what was once the tiny Jewish quarter. Based on the shape of the building, I recognized a fairly small synagogue. A quarter intermediate between the Talpiots. Its architecture did not at all resemble the Algiers, Oran, or Constantine that I knew. And yet…
Where did the name Tarascon come from?
I continued to the 14th century castle of King Provence Rene, a warrior and patron of the arts, protector of the Jews, more closely associated with Aix-en-Provence. The castle is one of the most impressive architectural achievements of the feudal era. It towers over the river, and deep moats divide it from the city. Visitors were mostly non-Arabs. The wonderfully preserved castle displays an impressive collection of ancient tapestries from Flanders – fine replicas. And in the 17th-century apothecary is a collection of ancient medical porcelain. The king’s seats of honor open up right above the garden… Narrow, winding stairs climb to the flat roof, from which a beautiful view is offered in all directions.
The name Trescon comes from a legend, which also fits the fictional atmosphere of Provence very well. It tells of a legendary animal called Trescon, which migrated from Asia Minor to the great forest that stretched from ancient times between Avignon and Arles. The terrifying monster laid waste to the entire region, devouring people in the fortified village of Jarnage. The inhabitants tried to kill the animal while it was shedding its skin, and failed. Only Saint Martha, Jesus' aunt, who happened to be in the area, was strong enough to control the monster. Since then, Jarnage has been called Trescon, and Martha is the patron saint of Trescon – and, for some reason, of innkeepers! A stone statue of a falcon stands not far from the castle.
The Charles Demery-Souleiado Museum commemorates a felt factory and dyeing of fabrics in such Provençal colors. The inks were a hit until the 80s.
The town of Boker
I crossed the bridge to Beaucaire, outside Provence. It is more beautiful than Tarragona, thanks to a hill on which the old quarter extends, and it rises out of the lower town. It turns at a 90-degree angle onto a boulevard with restaurants and cafes, and a promenade lined with dozens of riverboats, yachts and houseboats. Beaucaire is known for its great annual fair: the Madeleine Fair, which has been held there since the 13th century. It lasted a week, sometimes longer, and attracted merchants from Europe and the Near East to the small town, street entertainers, criminals and prostitutes – and hundreds of thousands of buyers and the curious. In an old advertisement, I saw that the goods came even from Jerusalem. What did Jerusalem have to sell in the late Middle Ages? Cloth. The fair lasted until the French Revolution, and then faded. In the meantime, the city became richer, and the villas of the generations were built there: the Renaissance quarter that climbs the hill. The impressive Notre-Dame-de-Pommier church was built in the 18th century, tucked away between narrow alleys and facing a small square that makes it difficult to get a general overview. On a fine Sunday, a holiday for Christians and travelers, it is closed.
Upstairs, in a garden, an ancient castle, around which a show of taming birds of prey is taking place. In the small museum, dedicated to the history of the settlement and archaeological finds from ancient times found there, a pottery with a Star of David caught my eye. It was not stated that it was a Jewish item, but it says that the vessel was from Spain. Do you think the tour of the old quarter was conducted at ease? Wrong! Again, the entire quarter is Arab. The only “natives” I saw were a group of architecture enthusiasts, who followed a guide who told them the story of the Hôtel Particulier, large houses of wealthy families, and on each house there was a sign briefly telling who built it, who lived in it, and when.
All the cafes in the charming squares and alleys, which still bore French names or were related to the bullfighting that was practiced in the area – like the Café Aficionados – were populated by Muslims. So were small eateries serving margaux and sweets from North Africa. The culture-loving tourists were pictured in my imagination as tourists, visiting the remains of a culture that had passed from the world, it and the people who were identified with its glorious past. I, the Asian, walked and read the signs that were like memorial plaques for a time that would never return. And as I walked, and from the cafes I looked in amazement at the stranger, a young Muslim cleric in fashionable sneakers greeted me with a smile. Perhaps he thought that by doing so he would persuade me to embrace his faith, as more and more French people were doing. In contrast to the sense of danger that accompanied me in Tarsus, here I felt a deep sense of alienation, and the deep sorrow of someone watching the end of civilization. I ran from the old quarter back to the bridge, and at the gate leading to the parking lot, a woman stood screaming in Arabic at the tourists.
France is getting more involved
I've known Provence for almost sixty years and there have always been Arabs there. But to a certain extent. Marseille was a mixed city, French, Jewish, Arab, Armenian, and diversity was the source of its social and cultural wealth. Like Jaffa, like Jerusalem. Gradually, the balance was upset, and forever. Marseille is increasingly Arab. My favorite Earl intervenes. Here, two ancient quarters, in which I saw only an Arab population. And even if there are French people left that I have not seen, this is hard evidence of an irreversible demographic occupation. Immigration enriches the society that absorbs it – as long as the society is able to absorb. InFrance, and in other countries, society can no longer assimilate the immigrants, they are too numerous for its absorption capacity. A minority is created that feels rejected, and because of its incessant growth it creates a new society, built on the original society, which until now has absorbed and assimilated with complete success such numerous and diverse waves of immigrants, and has made the individuals French in every way. Well, it's over.
To be fair, I'll note that in September a very enlightened Israeli tourist visited both cities. His reports from there are completely different from my impressions. He saw the beauty, and perhaps ignored the demographics.