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The executioner's sword

Despite executing an average of two or three prisoners each week, Saudi Arabia’s grotesque love affa

It was around this time last year that Britain’s red carpet was rolled out for the high-pomp state visit of King Abdullah, Saudi Arabia’s monarch and head of government.

The visit was characterised by the inevitable splendour of these occasions - royals meeting royals, lavish banquets, gold-encrusted carriages, bafflingly complex dining arrangements, and a good deal of controversy. Especially about arms deals and human rights.

Gordon Brown and government ministers kept to tight lines about “shared values” and “fighting terrorism”, but the two-day visit saw a welter of criticism from some backbench politicians, from human rights organisations and from commentators of various stripes.

Amnesty, for one, didn’t “oppose” the visit, but sought to talk about human rights in relation to a country that refuses to even allow Amnesty researchers to go to visit to meet Saudi people face to face.

Others added their voices and King Abdullah and his officials were reportedly “shocked” that they had been so much criticised during their time here.

But should they have been shocked? And were the Saudis actually listening to any of what their critics were saying?

It’s healthy and necessary for world leaders to listen to their critics. Rather than recoiling from these views - were we guilty of some unpardonable lèse majesté breach of etiquette? - Riyadh’s royals really ought to start listening to what people are actually complaining about.

It’s pretty simple. The Saudi authorities display an almost complete disregard for even the most basic human rights. Peaceful critics of the government are often subjected to prolonged detention without charge or trial. There are widespread allegations of the use of horrible torture against detainees. Floggings are imposed by the courts (11 Nigerian men were recently sentenced to 1,000 lashes each). Violence and discrimination against women is common, and migrant workers frequently labour under second-class status and suffer physical abuse from their employers.

Many of these gross abuses are piled one on top of another when it comes to Saudi Arabia’s implementation of capital punishment.

Here’s a typical scenario. A Pakistani migrant worker is accused of a murder or of being a drug dealer. Police arrive, the accused is taken to police cells. They are subjected to relentless questioning, denied sleep or food, kept in solitary confinement and tortured if they refuse to “confess” to their crime.

Fearing for their lives, scared and exhausted, the detainee signs a “confession” in Arabic that they can’t read or understood. They cling to a hope that they can sort out the mess when they can get a lawyer or come to trial.

They never get to sort it out. They’re taken before a court without a lawyer and the judge pronounces them guilty entirely on the basis of their false confession. Even then they may be in the dark. Without even the assistance of an interpreter, they probably won’t know what the outcome actually is. What is the sentence? Is there an appeal? A few months later they go to their deaths with no mercy from the Saudi system and no help from their home country, itself a “death penalty state” and one reliant on remittances from oil-rich Saudi Arabia.

In April 2005, for example, six young Somali men were publicly beheaded one morning after being taken out of their prisons where they had been serving what they thought were five-year sentences (plus flogging) for robbery. In fact, unbeknownst to them or their families, they had also been sentenced to death and the men only discovered the fact they were to be killed on the very morning of their executions.

In the last two years alone, according to Amnesty records (incomplete because Saudi Arabia refrains from publishing capital punishment statistics), at least 253 people have been executed. Of these, at least 127 were foreign nationals from poor and developing countries in Asia and Africa, notably Pakistan. Some 125 of them were poor Saudi Arabians (it’s been impossible to even identify the nationality of the remainder); the richer, better-connected Saudis, meanwhile, tend to barter “blood money” pay-offs to victims’ families and escape execution altogether.

Bucking the international trend toward abolition or reduced usage of the death penalty, and behind only China and Iran in terms of raw numbers, Saudi Arabia is executing more and more prisoners, including many for non-lethal crimes. A Turkish man living in Jeddah, for example, a barber called Sabri Bogday, is facing execution after being convicted (without a lawyer or interpreter) on “apostasy” charges for supposedly insulting Islam. Last November an Egyptian, Mustafa Ibrahim, was executed in Riyadh following what the Saudi Ministry of the Interior described as his conviction for “sorcery” and “witchcraft”.

Despite executing two or three prisoners every single week on average, Saudi Arabia’s grotesque love affair with the executioner’s sword is raising barely a murmur of protest from the international community, including our own government.

As William Sampson, one of the “Saudi Brits” who was himself sentenced to death in Riyadh in 2001 recently told Amnesty, what really appalled him in his own case was the almost “mute observance” of the UK government at what was happening in Saudi Arabia.

And still it goes on. Apparently when it comes to the Saudi royals we are keen to roll out the welcome carpet and blow the ceremonial trumpets of state, but altogether less keen to break the code of silence around Saudi Arabia’s diabolical human rights record.

Read Amnesty International’s new report on executions in Saudi Arabia

Kate Allen is UK director of Amnesty International

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The French millennials marching behind Marine Le Pen

A Front National rally attracts former socialists with manicured beards, and a lesbian couple. 

“In 85 days, Marine will be President of the French Republic!” The 150-strong crowd cheered at the sound of the words. On stage, the speaker, the vice-president of the far-right Front National (FN), Florian Philippot, continued: “We will be told that it’s the apocalypse, by the same banks, media, politicians, who were telling the British that Brexit would be an immediate catastrophe.

"Well, they voted, and it’s not! The British are much better off than we are!” The applause grew louder and louder. 

I was in the medieval city of Metz, in a municipal hall near the banks of the Moselle River, a tributary of the Rhine from which the region takes its name. The German border lies 49km east; Luxembourg City is less than an hour’s drive away. This is the "Country of the Three Borders", equidistant from Strasbourg and Frankfurt, and French, German and French again after various wars. Yet for all that local history is deeply rooted in the wider European history, votes for the Front National rank among the highest nationally, and continue to rise at every poll. 

In rural Moselle, “Marine”, as the Front National leader Marine Le Pen is known, has an envoy. In 2014, the well-spoken, elite-educated Philippot, 35, ran for mayor in Forbach, a former miner’s town near the border. He lost to the Socialist candidate but has visited regularly since. Enough for the locals to call him “Florian".

I grew up in a small town, Saint-Avold, halfway between Metz and Forbach. When my grandfather was working in the then-prosperous coal mines, the Moselle region attracted many foreign workers. Many of my fellow schoolmates bore Italian and Polish surnames. But the last mine closed in 2004, and now, some of the immigrants’ grandchildren are voting for the National Front.

Returning, I can't help but wonder: How did my generation, born with the Maastricht treaty, end up turning to the Eurosceptic, hard right FN?

“We’ve seen what the other political parties do – it’s always the same. We must try something else," said Candice Bertrand, 23, She might not be part of the group asking Philippot for selfies, but she had voted FN at every election, and her family agreed. “My mum was a Communist, then voted for [Nicolas] Sarkozy, and now she votes FN. She’s come a long way.”  The way, it seemed, was political distrust.

Minutes earlier, Philippot had pleaded with the audience to talk to their relatives and neighbours. Bertrand had brought her girlfriend, Lola, whom she was trying to convince to vote FN.  Lola wouldn’t give her surname – her strongly left-wing family would “certainly not” like to know she was there. She herself had never voted.

This infuriated Bertrand. “Women have fought for the right to vote!” she declared. Daily chats with Bertrand and her family had warmed up Lola to voting Le Pen in the first round, although not yet in the second. “I’m scared of a major change,” she confided, looking lost. “It’s a bit too extreme.” Both were too young to remember 2002, when a presidential victory for the then-Front National leader Jean-Marie Le Pen, was only a few percentage points away.

Since then, under the leadership of his daughter, Marine, the FN has broken every record. But in this region, the FN’s success isn’t new. In 2002, when liberal France was shocked to see Le Pen reach the second round of the presidential election, the FN was already sailing in Moselle. Le Pen grabbed 23.7 per cent of the Moselle vote in the first round and 21.9 per cent in the second, compared to 16.9 per cent and 17.8 per cent nationally. 

The far-right vote in Moselle remained higher than the national average before skyrocketing in 2012. By then, the younger, softer-looking Marine had taken over the party. In that year, the FN won an astonishing 24.7 per cent of the Moselle vote, and 17.8 per cent nationwide.

For some people of my generation, the FN has already provided opportunities. With his manicured beard and chic suit, Emilien Noé still looks like the Young Socialist he was between 16 and 18 years old. But looks can be deceiving. “I have been disgusted by the internal politics at the Socialist Party, the lack of respect for the low-ranked campaigners," he told me. So instead, he stood as the FN’s youngest national candidate to become mayor in his village, Gosselming, in 2014. “I entered directly into action," he said. (He lost). Now, at just 21, Noé is the FN’s youth coordinator for Eastern France.

Metz, Creative Commons licence credit Morgaine

Next to him stood Kevin Pfeiffer, 27. He told me he used to believe in the Socialist ideal, too - in 2007, as a 17-year-old, he backed Ségolène Royal against Sarkozy. But he is now a FN local councillor and acts as the party's general co-ordinator in the region. Both Noé and Pfeiffer radiated a quiet self-confidence, the sort that such swift rises induces. They shared a deep respect for the young-achiever-in-chief: Philippot. “We’re young and we know we can have perspectives in this party without being a graduate of l’ENA,” said another activist, Olivier Musci, 24. (The elite school Ecole Nationale d’Administration, or ENA, is considered something of a mandatory finishing school for politicians. It counts Francois Hollande and Jacques Chirac among its alumni. Ironically, Philippot is one, too.)

“Florian” likes to say that the FN scores the highest among the young. “Today’s youth have not grown up in a left-right divide”, he told me when I asked why. “The big topics, for them, were Maastricht, 9/11, the Chinese competition, and now Brexit. They have grown up in a political world structured around two poles: globalism versus patriotism.” Notably, half his speech was dedicated to ridiculing the FN's most probably rival, the maverick centrist Emmanuel Macron. “It is a time of the nations. Macron is the opposite of that," Philippot declared. 

At the rally, the blue, red and white flame, the FN’s historic logo, was nowhere to be seen. Even the words “Front National” had deserted the posters, which were instead plastered with “in the name of the people” slogans beneath Marine’s name and large smile. But everyone wears a blue rose at the buttonhole. “It’s the synthesis between the left’s rose and the right’s blue colour”, Pfeiffer said. “The symbol of the impossible becoming possible.” So, neither left nor right? I ask, echoing Macron’s campaign appeal. “Or both left and right”, Pfeiffer answered with a grin.

This nationwide rebranding follows years of efforts to polish the party’s jackass image, forged by decades of xenophobic, racist and anti-Semitic declarations by Le Pen Sr. His daughter evicted him from the party in 2015.

Still, Le Pen’s main pledges revolve around the same issue her father obsessed over - immigration. The resources spent on "dealing with migrants" will, Le Pen promises, be redirected to address the concerns of "the French people". Unemployment, which has been hovering at 10 per cent for years, is very much one of them. Moselle's damaged job market is a booster for the FN - between 10 and 12 per cent of young people are unemployed.

Yet the two phenomena cannot always rationally be linked. The female FN supporters I met candidly admitted they drove from France to Luxembourg every day for work and, like many locals, often went shopping in Germany. Yet they hoped to see the candidate of “Frexit” enter the Elysee palace in May. “We've never had problems to work in Luxembourg. Why would that change?” asked Bertrand. (Le Pen's “144 campaign pledges” promise frontier workers “special measures” to cross the border once out of the Schengen area, which sounds very much like the concept of the Schengen area itself.)

Grégoire Laloux, 21, studied history at the University of Metz. He didn't believe in the European Union. “Countries have their own interests. There are people, but no European people,” he said. “Marine is different because she defends patriotism, sovereignty, French greatness and French history.” He compared Le Pen to Richelieu, the cardinal who made Louis XIV's absolute monarchy possible:  “She, too, wants to build a modern state.”

French populists are quick to link the country's current problems to immigration, and these FN supporters were no exception. “With 7m poor and unemployed, we can't accept all the world's misery,” Olivier Musci, 24, a grandchild of Polish and Italian immigrants, told me. “Those we welcome must serve the country and be proud to be here.”

Lola echoed this call for more assimilation. “At our shopping centre, everyone speaks Arabic now," she said. "People have spat on us, thrown pebbles at us because we're lesbians. But I'm in my country and I have the right to do what I want.” When I asked if the people who attacked them were migrants, she was not so sure. “Let's say, they weren't white.”

Trump promised to “Make America Great Again”. To where would Le Pen's France return? Would it be sovereign again? White again? French again? Ruled by absolutism again? She has blurred enough lines to seduce voters her father never could – the young, the gay, the left-wingers. At the end of his speech, under the rebranded banners, Philippot invited the audience to sing La Marseillaise with him. And in one voice they did: “To arms citizens! Form your battalions! March, march, let impure blood, water our furrows...” The song is the same as the one I knew growing up. But it seemed to me, this time, a more sinister tune.