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What happens to your town once a far-right party comes to power?

In March’s local elections, the French far-right party the Front National took control of new towns in the rust-belts of the north and south. What has changed there since they came to power?

There’s a sign hanging on the wall of a spent-looking French Communist Party (PCF) constituency office: “Their smiles only trick those who are fooled by appearances,” it says.

500 meters away, outside the Town Hall in Hénin-Beaumont - an old industrial mining district - Steeve Briois is all smiles. After 18 years of campaigning for the far-right Front National (FN) the city is under his control. In the end all he needed was a single round of voting.

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Across France, the FN has been gaining ground. March’s local elections were the most successful in the party’s 42-year history with just under 1,500 local councillors and 11 new towns won in the rust-belts of the north and south. Results from last week’s European elections confirm what so many had dreaded: that the FN, a party untouchable only a few years ago, is now a major force in French politics.

In the national press, Hénin-Beaumont has become a symbol for this success. Here, as in many places, former communist voters have shifted to the far-right, swayed by an interest in local grievances they believe to be honest, and a populist anti-capitalism that appeals to their intellectual roots.

“The mayor has been using the exact same speeches as the far-left syndicalist movement,” says Octave Nitkowski, a local blogger studying in Paris. ”It’s working because the socialist and communist parties are completely rotten.”

An anarchist symbol sprayed over Le Pen. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

An anarchist symbol sprayed over Le Pen. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

Towards the rural end of Hénin-Beaumont a factory once belonging to the baggage company Samsonite is stripped bare, half-collapsing. Dulled splats of color from paintball guns pepper the walls. The local kids have found a playground in capitalism’s ruins.

Inside the abandoned Samsonite factory. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

Inside the abandoned Samsonite factory. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

They weren’t the first. In 2005 the facility was owned by Mitt Romney’s private equity vehicle, Bain Capital. The group sold it off for one euro to a company that promised to make solar panels but drove it into bankruptcy. According to the workers, Bain engineered the entire situation: relinquishing unwanted production without paying their staff the redundancy they were due.

It’s a story that captures the bitterness of a town where 18 per cent are now unemployed and few believe in the centre-right (UNP) or centre-left (PS) as a realistic solution.

“The politicians have completely abandoned our area,” says Benichau Fahim, 39, the son of an Algerian immigrant. “There are no passionate individuals anymore.”

This is what Steeve Briois has promised to reverse. Throughout the campaign he was visible, at the market twice a week, listening to the locals, shaking hands. Making compromises, even. Outside the Flemish-Gothic town hall he now runs, a European Union flag sits uneasily next to the tri-colour after a protest from local activists.

“I don't like the term 'ideology',” he tells us. “I find it pejorative. Our programme was based on budgetary matters, local taxes, crime and punishment. We talked about the local swimming pool, the football pitch, cultural issues, public servant pay.”

Race, immigration and the “contradictions” of Muslim settlement are curiously absent from this discourse. But after only a month in office Briois’s image as a pragmatic town manager has been dented by ordering the eviction of a local branch of the Human Rights League, a group that has fought anti-Semitism and racism since the Dreyfus Affair. Intimidating messages from the FN have also been sent to the town’s church according to Nitkowski, after its priest, Jean-Marie Lokhay, described the views of the FN as incompatible with Catholicism.

The locals don’t seem to be affected, however. The image the FN wants to project: of trustworthy, practical town mangers, of politicians that get things done, seems to be working.

“Perhaps they are hypocrites but nothing has changed for us,” says a Turkish man, who owns a restaurant just next to the town hall. “Even Marine Le Pen has walked by and shaken our hands.”

Steeve Briois in the town hall. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

Steeve Briois in the town hall. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

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If Hénin-Beaumont provides ammunition to claims that the FN has detoxified – elsewhere things are different. In Mantes-La-Ville – a small industrial suburb of Paris – the evidence of more traditional FN dogma is everywhere. Here, a generation nostalgic for a period of post-war growth it calls the Trente Glorieuses, the “thirty glorious years”, has grown bitter.

“Materially poor people are blaming their poverty on other people,” says Frederick Aumonier in his well-kept apartment in the middle of town. “They are motivated by jealousy and fear - claiming the foreigners are stealing from the nation’s riches.”

Frederick is 55 and has lived in Mantes-La-Ville his entire life working as a plumber, a cab driver and now, like his father, in a local factory. He is unaffected by the town’s hostility towards immigrants but his wife, Dada, a 28 year old Senegalese immigrant, is not.

“I was using the phone quietly on the train to Paris when a woman asked me to be quiet. When I told her she was being impolite she said. ‘Let’s see what happens in the elections.’ She was implying that I will be going back.”

According to the party and political commentators, Marine Le Pen has softened the FN, turning it from a group of collaborationists and revolutionary nationalists into an anti-racist, even liberal, party. But in Mantes-La-Ville, where a third of the population is Muslim, the same old racism is seeping through.

“We are not comfortable,” says Azzedine a 54-year-old practicing Muslim who has lived in France his whole life. “Islam has existed for centuries, we are for freedom and peace for everyone. What is happening is unjust.”

Azzedine is standing outside a ramshackle local mosque, too small for the community it is trying to serve. The walls are peeling and the roof is propped up by makeshift corrugated plastic.

Under plans ratified by the last mayor the mosque will be torn down and replaced by a parking lot. Blueprints for a much larger place of worship, adapted from a regional treasury building, had been accepted by the previous administration. But Cyril Nauth, the new FN Mayor, has now refused them. Once the present council-owned building comes down, the local Muslim community will have no place of communal worship.

“Things have changed a lot,” say Abdelaziz El Jaouhari, the mosque’s president, just after afternoon prayers. “Tensions are rising very seriously. We received several letters from FN militants with insults and threats. They put pork in the letterbox and said the mayor should cleanse the city of the Muslim race. The FN wants to normalise themselves as a republican party. But the ideologies of the FN militants haven’t changed at all.”

Abdelaziz explains his plans for the new mosque. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

Abdelaziz explains his plans for the new mosque. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

***

A giant concrete viaduct soars above the centre of Hayange, a once-successful steel town in the Val de Fensch. Cars fly past but few stop. Deep in the district of Lorraine, this is so-called “invisible France”; unemployment is high, industry has collapsed and confidence in politics has vanished.

In 2013 the town was struck by the closure of a huge blast furnace factory in neighboring Florange, the final straw in a long, slow process of economic and cultural decline. Hollande had promised to save the factory owned by ArcelorMittal after an exhausting industrial struggle but his words proved empty.

The closed furnaces in Florange. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

The closed furnaces in Florange. Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

Only last year the town’s new mayor, Fabien Engelmann, was a CGT union activist and member of the leftwing New Anticapitalist Party (NPA). Now he spends his days critiquing “Mohammadean ideology” and clamping down on the ‘entitlements’ of immigrants. His words are rubbing off.

“Hayange used to be a very rich, lively town,” says Pascal, 68 in a local boulangerie. “Now it has become a cemetery. And where there is poverty the crows always come. I don’t understand why we give people from abroad help when the people here get nothing.”

Across the road at Le Bar Central, Daniel, a garbage collector, is drinking an espresso. His mother and father are Algerian but he was born in Hayange.

“It is making me sick at the heart,” he says quietly. “They want to get rid of the mosque, they are saying that there are too many halal butchers. The Mayor is blaming decline on foreigners; he wants to give priority to the French people.”

His fears are more than justified. Engelmann promised a “Pork Fest” in Hayange if he came to power. Now, should he have his way, the sons and daughters of practicing Muslims like Daniel will be unable to eat non-pork meals in their own schools.

“If it happens I will move away from the town,” Daniel says visibly moved. “For my children’s sake.” As we finish speaking he turns towards the toilets, tears forming in his eyes.

"What a waste". Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

"What a waste". Photo: Philip Kleinfeld

At the regional council of Lorraine, nobody wants the FN to succeed. The fear for Hayange is that crucial financial subsidies will be stopped as a kind of collective punishment, one that ensures the FN cannot look good to the local population.

It’s a depressing premonition for a town in desperate need of help but sadly not one limited to France. With the far-right gaining ground across the continent, at both national and European levels, the problems have barely begun.

Some names have been changed

Philip Kleinfeld is on Twitter @PKleinfeld

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Guns and bullets and nothing more: The Syrian Kurds fighting Isis

They are the US-led coalition's main ally in the fight against Isis, but as Turkey keeps bombing them, the sense of betrayal is growing.

A sense of a betrayal pervaded the funeral, giving an angry edge to the mourners’ grief. The Kurds were used to the Turks killing their people. It was almost expected. What was different in their attitude to the killing of the 14 men and women buried that hot afternoon in the cemetery at Derik, among 20 fighters killed by Turkish air strikes just three days earlier, was that it had occurred under the watchful auspices of the Syrian Kurds’ big ally: America.

So when a US armoured patrol arrived at the edge of the cemetery in northern Syria, the American troops had been met with sullen stares and silence. I watched Aldar Khalil, one of the most influential advisers with the local Syrian Kurdish administration, approach the US army officer while a cordon of armed YPG fighters surrounded the patrol to keep civilians away.

“I told the American officer how angry people felt,” he told me afterwards, “and advised them that as soon as they had achieved what they wanted to at the funeral they should go. Emotions are high. People expected more.”

The air strikes had been far more significant than anything previously visited by the Turks on the YPG, the Syrian Kurd fighting group that has become the Americans’ primary ally in the forthcoming battle to capture the city of Raqqa from Isis. Operations to shape the battlefield around the militants’ capital are ongoing, and some sections of the front YPG units, the mainstay of the anti-Isis alliance, are now less than four kilometres from the outskirts of Raqqa.

However, the entire operation was thrown into jeopardy early on the morning of 25 April, just days before US officials confirmed that President Donald Trump had authorised the direct supply of weapons to the YPG. Turkish jets repeatedly bombed the YPG’s main command centre on Qarachok Mountain, just above the small town of Derik, destroying ammunition stocks, a communications centre and accommodation blocks. The dead included Mohammed Khalil, a top commander involved in planning the Raqqa operation.

The attack immediately drove a wedge between US troops and the Syrian Kurds, who felt they had been knowingly betrayed by the United States, which had acted as the YPG’s ally in the fight for Raqqa with the one hand while allowing its fellow Nato and coalition member Turkey to stab the YPG in the back with the other.

“There were a couple of days after the Qarachok strikes when several of our leading commanders, and many of our people, put on the pressure to withdraw our forces from the Raqqa front altogether and send them to protect our borders with Turkey,” Khalil, the Syrian Kurd adviser, told me. “They wanted to stop the Raqqa operation. We had to explain very carefully that this was [the Turkish president] Erdogan’s goal, and to persuade them to continue.”

Senior YPG commanders suffered deep personal losses in the Turkish air strikes. Among the mourners at Derik was ­Rojda Felat, a joint commander of the overall Raqqa operation. Standing beside the grave of Jiyan Ahmed, one of her closest friends, she clasped a portrait of the dead woman in her hands.

“She survived fighting Da’esh [Isis] in Kobane, in Tal Hamis and Manbij,” Felat said. “She survived all that, only to be killed by a Turkish jet.”

Later, illustrating the fragile contradictions of the coalition’s alliances, Felat explained that she had gone to sleep in the early hours of 25 April, after finishing a series of late-night planning meetings with British and US officers at the forward headquarters she shares with them on the north side of Lake Assad, Syria’s largest lake, when word of the air strikes came through.

“It was very clear to me that the Americans I was with had not known about the air strikes,” said Felat, 35, a legendary figure among Syria’s Kurds whose role models include Napoleon and the socialist revolutionary Rosa Luxemburg. “They could see how upset and angry I was to learn in an instant that so many friends had been killed, and the Americans dealt with that compassionately. I was extremely distressed, to say the least,” she added, looking away.

Within a few hours of the strikes, Felat was on a US helicopter alongside US officers flown to Qarachok to assess the damage in a very public display of US-YPG solidarity.

The Americans were quick to try to mitigate the damage to their Kurdish allies. A further 250 US troops were sent into Syria to run observation patrols along the Syria-Turkey border in an attempt to de-escalate the tension, bringing the number of US troops there to more than 1,200. In addition, US weapons consignments to the Syrian Kurds increased “manifold” in a matter of days, Felat said.

Yet these measures are unlikely to stop the fallout from a strategy – that of arming the Syrian Kurds – which risks broadening Turkey’s overall conflict with the YPG, unless certain crucial political objectives are attained parallel to the push on Raqqa.

Turkey, at present regarded as a mercurial and mendacious “frenemy” by Western coalition commanders, perceives the YPG as a terrorist organisation that is an extension of its arch-enemy the PKK, a left-wing group demanding greater auton­omy within Turkey. Hence Ankara’s deep concern that the YPG’s growing power in Syria will strengthen the PKK inside Turkey. The Turks would rather their own proxies in Syria – an unattractive hotchpotch of Syrian Islamist groups mistrusted by the West – reaped the rewards for the capture of Raqqa than the YPG.

Although US commanders find the YPG more reliable and militarily effective than the Turkish-backed Islamist groups, the Syrian Kurds are a non-state actor, a definition that ensures B-grade status in the cut and thrust of foreign policy. Nevertheless, recalling the painful lesson of 2003 – that military success is impotent unless it serves a political vision – the US should be devoting energy to imposing conditions on the supply of arms to the YPG as a way of containing Turkish aggression against their ally.

Salient conditions could include the YPG disassociating from the PKK; a cessation in repressing rival political parties in YPG areas; the withdrawal of YPG fighters from northern Iraq, where they are involved in a needless stand-off with Iraqi Kurds; and an agreement by the YPG to withdraw from Raqqa, an Arab city, once it is captured.

As a quid pro quo, and in return for the YPG blood spilled in Raqqa, the Syrian Kurds should have their desire for autonomy supported; have the crippling trade embargo placed on them by the government of Iraqi Kurdistan lifted; and, by means of buffer zones, have their territories protected from further attacks by Turkey and its Islamist proxies.

So far, none of these measures is in play, and comments by US officials have only strengthened a growing suspicion among Syria’s Kurds that they will be discarded by the US the moment the YPG have fulfilled their use and captured Raqqa.

“We have not promised the YPG anything,” Jonathan Cohen, a senior US state department official, told the Middle East Institute in Washington on 17 May – a day after President Erdogan’s visit to the US. “They are in this fight because they want to be in this fight. Our relationship is temporary, transactional and tactical.”

Cohen further said: “We have the YPG because they were the only force on the ground ready to act in the short term. That is where it stops.”

The sense of betrayal felt by the mourners at Derik was perfectly understandable. But Syria’s Kurds should not be so surprised the next time it happens. America, it seems, has promised them nothing more than guns and bullets. 

Anthony Loyd is a war correspondent for the Times

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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