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The mystery president: How the Charlie Hebdo shooting saved François Hollande's reputation

François Hollande was elected on a promise to rule from the left, but proved an unpopular figure – until the January attack on Charlie Hebdo offered an unexpected reprieve.

On a late February night in Brussels, François Hollande was bleary-eyed after two days without sleep, but also jubilant. He’d spent 16 hours overnight in Minsk, Belarus, with Angela Merkel, extracting a Ukraine ceasefire from Vladimir Putin. From there he’d gone straight to a summit of EU leaders. Aides advised rest but the French president was determined to chat about the other triumph of the day: the sale of 24 Dassault Rafale jets to Egypt, the first export deal for the French fighter after 20 years of vain effort.

“India has confirmed the order – er, I mean Egypt,” Hollande said. “I could have said Qatar, given the confusion of being so tired.” With a characteristic giggle he stumbled on. “We’ve worked out payment that is within the means of Greece . . . er, Egypt. I think I’d better stop or we won’t know who’s bought what.”

Long-winded and self-mocking, the performance was pure Hollande. A back-room politician for most of his career, he has always enjoyed schmoozing with journalists. In Brussels he often rambles on after other leaders have left and the staff start turning out the lights. But on that February night, there was a touch of something else. Hollande was exuding a new self-assurance and was obviously enjoying himself. His first two and a half years of fumbled administration had felt like a succession of disasters, from rising unemployment to character assassination by Valérie Trierweiler, the betrayed former first lady. But in January, events had offered a reprieve.

After the Kouachi brothers committed their slaughter at the offices of Charlie Hebdo on the morning of 7 January, the most unpopular French leader in modern times had come into his own. Alerted by a friend’s text message from the scene, the unloved Socialist had ignored his security men and rushed from the Élysée Palace to the blood-spattered offices of the satirical magazine while the bodies were still on the floor. Rallying the nation in the days that followed, Hollande struck the right tone of solemnity and empathy. Leading the march of a million people through Paris on 11 January, he inspired a sense of communion around the republic’s values of liberty, equality and fraternity.

The plump little 60-year-old who had won election as “Monsieur Normal” no longer seemed such a lightweight. He had finally assumed the stature expected of France’s monarchical presidents. “François Hollande has suddenly come together,” the veteran commentator Alain Duhamel wrote in Libération. “For the first time, he embodied the nation and made us proud.” Le Figaro, Hollande’s chief media adversary, voiced its admiration. “He has become audible again when most of the French had given up on him,” it said.

At every opportunity since then Hollande has been invoking the “spirit of 11 January”. But the “Charlie effect” has faded and France has fallen back into la morosité that has coloured the national mood for two decades. Hollande’s Parti Socialiste (PS) has returned to feuding. His approval ratings have fallen again after the January spike. He lost 6 points from mid-January, dropping to 26 per cent on 20 February, against a record low of 16 per cent in November, according to Odoxa polling. Meanwhile Marine Le Pen’s Front National (FN) made a strong showing in the first round of national county council elections that end on 29 March. The FN secured 25 per cent of the vote, beaten into second place only by the centre-right alliance led by Nicolas Sarkozy’s Union pour un Mouvement Populaire (UMP).

Yet Hollande is sure that he has changed the way people look at him and is convinced he has transformed his presidency. Friends from his days at the École Nationale d’Administration (Éna), the finishing school of the governing elite, are unsurprised. “You wouldn’t think it, but François has always had an absolute belief in his destiny and it has remained unshaken despite the battering of the past two years,” a classmate from his 1980 year group at Éna told me after she visited him in December. This matches what Stéphane Le Foll, another member of the inner circle, told journalists in 2012 when he was helping manage Hollande’s campaign to defeat Nicolas Sarkozy. “People have always underestimated François,” said Le Foll, who is now the minister for agriculture and chief government spokesman. “There is a steel and clarity that you don’t see.”

 

***

 

To most people in France Hollande remains a mystery: insaisissable, ambiguous and blurred. People thought they had him pinned down when he won office as president with a muddled, old-style leftist manifesto, declaring war on “the world of finance” and harking back to the 1980s, the statist golden age of his mentor and hero, François Mitterrand. “We don’t have to go the way of the markets. I try to be coherent. We can do it the French way,” he told me in an interview on a train in late 2011, six months before his election, during the first Greek euro crisis. Then after piling on new taxes for 18 months, with the economy stagnant, and after failing to fulfil unwise deadlines for cutting the jobless rate, he made a U-turn. The micromanaging president followed up last spring with pro-business reforms, dumping left-wing ministers and appointing as prime minister Manuel Valls, a Blair-style moderniser. In a reshuffle soon after that, Emmanuel Macron, 37, an Éna-trained merchant banker who had served on Hollande’s staff, was promoted to run the economy ministry, where he has become the bête noire of the orthodox left.

Yet, despite multiple interviews, speeches and news conferences on the subject, Hollande has still not explained what he is up to with the economy. Unlike Valls, who gleefully breaches socialist taboo and embraces business, his language remains that of a leftist technocrat whose software was set in the 1970s. Much of France may have signed up to globalised competition – but not Hollande, at least not openly. It is not surprising that orthodox colleagues, such as Arnaud Montebourg, the maverick industry minister who was sacked last year, accuse him of betrayal. The sharpest attack on his leadership has come from Cécile Duflot, a former Green Party leader who was dumped from her job as housing minister a year ago. “His chief quality is his calm. His main fault is not saying what he thinks,” Duflot, 39, wrote in an account of her time in cabinet, From the Inside: Journey to the Land of Disillusion, published in August. Hollande had failed the left, she said. “By trying to be president for everyone, he has managed to be the president of no one.”

Aiming for revenge in the 2017 presidential election, Sarkozy went on the offensive in February, using the Europe 1 radio breakfast show to denounce Hollande as a serial deceiver. “When you lie to the French, there is a moment when you have to pay the bill,” Sarkozy said. “When you say you are going to run the country from the left . . . and then you do exactly the opposite, you create the conditions for revolt.”

It may not have damaged Hollande that France has learned that he is far from being a genial Monsieur Petites Blagues, or “Mr Little Jokes”, as he was once nicknamed by Laurent Fabius, a party rival who is now his foreign minister. Hollande always used the “straightforward nice guy” image as a cover in his decades backstage running the PS while Ségolène Royal, his former partner and the mother of his four children, stole the limelight as a minister and political star.

Valérie Trierweiler told me about Hollande’s secretive side when I interviewed her a few days after his election in May 2012. “He puts everything in compartments and doesn’t always show what he’s thinking,” she said. I put down Trierweiler’s obvious insecurity to her well-known obsession with Royal, who had eclipsed Hollande, the party leader, by running for the presidency in 2007 (she lost to Sarkozy). Royal and Hollande ended their three-decade relationship a month after her failed presidential campaign. At the time, he was already seeing Trierweiler, a reporter for Paris Match. Royal nevertheless publicly supported him when he ran for president in 2012, upsetting the possessive new companion.

It later emerged that Hollande’s visible coolness towards Trierweiler during the 2012 election campaign sprang not from Royal’s presence but from another source. He was secretly courting Julie Gayet, the actress whose liaison with the president was spectacularly exposed when Closer magazine published photographs of him visiting her overnight at a flat in Paris in January 2014. “I did not know that Julie Gayet was already hanging around – like a snake in the grass,” Trierweiler later wrote in Merci pour ce moment, her exercise in literary revenge that became France’s bestseller of the year. “I did not see her coming.”

France got a glimpse of Hollande’s cold side when he shrugged off the Gayet scandal and dismissed Trierweiler from his life with a one-sentence communiqué that he dictated to Agence France Presse news agency. In another blow to Trierweiler, Royal was ushered back into the palace three months later as minister for ecology and energy. She holds number-two rank in the cabinet, where she enjoys a complicity with the president that rankles with other ministers.

 

***

 

The publication of Trierweiler’s book on 5 September inflicted the only big emotional wound that Hollande has acknowledged suffering in office. As a man attached to modesty and discretion, he was stung by the scrutiny of his private life, both when his motor-scooter visits to Gayet exposed him to ridicule and when Trierweiler exacted her revenge. What really hurt, though, was Trierweiler’s portrait of him as a calculating cynic who loves luxury and mocks the poor, describing them as les sans-dents – the toothless people. (That was a play on the sans-culottes, the poor who wore trousers rather than fashionable breeches and who rose up during the 1789 revolution.)

On 8 September Hollande called in his biographer, the journalist Serge Raffy, and told him the story was “a lie that wounds me”. He added, “It hit me like a blow against my whole life. I have built my existence on the principle of helping others.” Although the son of a well-to-do Normandy doctor, Hollande had always felt humble because the family had been poor two generations earlier, the president said in his remarks, published by Raffy in the weekly Nouvel Observateur. “I have never cheated, never sought to make anyone believe I was someone other than who I am.” He was obliged to hide his emotions “because showing them would be deemed weakness on my part”, he said. “My character makes me keep steady, to be like tempered steel and at the same time humane.”

The claim never to have cheated might sound odd to Britons and other foreigners who have followed the palace soap opera, but this new, assertive Hollande has gone down well. The president has repeatedly turned to the theme of solid nerves, talking publicly of how the job has hardened him. It has not hurt that the man who seemed to have stumbled Forrest Gump-like into the Élysée after the disgrace of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the early PS favourite, is now being depicted by opposition leaders as rather mean. “Hollande is very nasty; he has behaved like a bastard towards me,” said François Fillon, who served as prime minister under Sarkozy, speaking to Le Point in January. That outburst stemmed from a palace leak about Fillon’s alleged efforts to get Hollande’s team to raise the legal heat on Sarkozy, his rival, over past scandals.

The image of a tougher Hollande has reinforced his impressive performance on the foreign front as commander-in-chief and statesman. The most unmartial French president in decades has engaged troops for the past two years in a campaign against Islamist forces in Mali and elsewhere in the Sahel region. Last year, he sent French bombers and special forces in to Iraq to take on Islamic State and earlier he had been ready to bomb President Bashar al-Assad’s forces in Syria until events in London and Washington forced him to abandon imminent strikes.

In Europe, victory by the Syriza party in Greece and the rise of Matteo Renzi to prime minister in Italy have helped Hollande’s efforts to position France as a leading advocate for an alternative to German austerity.

After a frosty two years, Chancellor Merkel has started to treat Hollande as an equal, despite France’s continuing economic decline compared to Germany. Initially condescending, she now listens to him more in EU councils. Sarkozy, who prized his complicity with Merkel and privately derides Hollande as “pathetic” and a loser, was said to be envious when the chancellor invited Hollande to drive in the same Mercedes, with French and German pennants flying, to meet Putin in Minsk in February.

For all his satisfaction at winning respect at home and abroad, Hollande remains lucid over the outlook for his personal fortunes. Only the economy counts, as he knows. He dismayed his own circle by announcing in November that he would not stand for re-election if he has not managed to bring down unemployment. The jobless rate reached 10.3 per cent in December, falling back to 10.2 per cent the following month, against 9.7 per cent when he was elected.

Here, Hollande is hampered by his underlying failure: the refusal to clarify his course and ditch the left-wing rhetoric still beloved of the PS old guard and its clientele voters, dominated by civil servants, state-sector workers, teachers and the retired. They fault him from the left, demanding a return to protective socialism. Aurélie Filippetti, who was culture minister until she was dumped from the cabinet last summer, told RTL radio: “You can’t say in January, ‘France is under attack, France is at war,’ and then in February carry on the same policies that have led to a dead end, especially in employment.”

Filippetti is now one of the backbench mutineers making life tough for Hollande, Valls and Macron.

Being the product of his Éna, Mitterrandist background, Hollande still believes that France can prevail with its own model – a synthesis of enterprise and centralised administration by the state. That is the view of Dominique Reynié, an analyst who leads Fondapol, a centre-right think tank. “The conviction that you can change very little and the system will still hold is nearly unanimously shared in the governing elite,” he told me. Just as Mitterrand performed a pragmatic U-turn in 1983, imposing austerity to save the franc after two years of high-spending socialism, Hollande hired Macron and swung towards “social-liberalism” because he had no alternative. He has not undergone a conversion to the modern world, Reynié says. “The new direction in 2014 was useful and necessary but people don’t understand why he changed course. He hasn’t explained. Does it mean that what he said in the campaign wasn’t true? People on the left have lost their bearings.”

Like many in the commentariat, Reynié believes Hollande has finally grown into the presidency but he adds: “I don’t know how he will keep up this new trust from the people. What counts is unemployment and spending power and housing costs – things that affect people’s lives.”

The trouble is that, despite resentment against Hollande’s tax rises and general acceptance of the need for a competitive economy, much of France is still yearning for the reassuring state of old. Reflecting this, Sarkozy and his UMP have swung to a modernised form of Gaullist paternalism as they head towards the 2017 elections.

The biggest threat on the landscape is Marine Le Pen and the Front, who are busy stealing the old music of the PS along with its voters. The test in the local elections will be whether mainstream voters follow the old practice of crossing party lines in the run-off to block the far right, or whether the Front has gained enough respectability to win more than limited local power. A surge by the FN could set the stage for a presidential victory by Le Pen in 2017, a prospect that was inconceivable only a few years ago.

Dominique Reynié thinks France does not offer much of a model for left-wing parties elsewhere, such as Ed Miliband’s Labour, because the old statist creed has been rendered obsolete by globalised markets. “Time has run out for a European left that since the end of the 19th century has lived on the idea that you can mobilise the state and use taxes and public spending to organise social progress,” he says. That is certainly not the view of François Hollande and his nostalgic party. The young man who idolised François Mitterrand, the founder of modern French socialism, grew into a president who remains devoted to the creed of state-engineered social progress.

Charles Bremner is Europe editor of the Times

This article first appeared in the 27 March 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Double 2015

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Goodbye to the Confederate flag

After the shootings in Charleston, the Republican right showed it was finally ready to reject the old symbols of the Confederacy.

On 27 June, an African-American activist named Bree Newsome woke up before dawn, put on her climbing equipment and scaled a 30-foot flagpole on the lawn of State House in Columbia, South Carolina. She then removed the Confederate battle flag that flew from it. “We can’t wait any longer,” she explained later in an online statement. “It’s time for a new chapter where we are sincere about dismantling white supremacy.”

After she was led away in handcuffs, the flag was raised again.

Newsome’s protest reflected a growing impatience within America’s black community and anger about liberal inaction. Political rallies by the Democratic presidential contenders Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders have been disrupted by the Black Lives Matter campaign against violence committed on young African Americans and the cultural and legal biases that justify it. While promoting his book on race in the US, the writer Ta-Nehisi Coates argued that, to African Americans, the battle flag represents a lingering attempt “to bury the fact that half this country thought it was a good idea to raise an empire rooted in slavery”.

Yet, on this matter, to everyone’s surprise, the black civil rights movement and many southern Republicans have proved to be of one mind. On 9 July the House of Representatives in South Carolina voted to lower the battle flag for good. It stood, representatives said, for racism. It had to go.

The context of this agreement was a painful one. Ten days before Newsome’s act, a 21-year-old white man named Dylann Roof shot and killed nine black worshippers at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. According to his room-mate, he wanted to start a race war. The TV screens showed a photo of him holding a gun in one hand and a Confederate battle flag in the other.

If the demands for redress made by civil rights groups didn’t come as a surprise, conservative acquiescence did. The Republican Party had built a solid base in the South by courting white voters who cherished the memory of the Confederacy. Yet the party’s presidential hopefuls from both the North and the South – including Jeb Bush, Lindsey Graham, Scott Walker and George Pataki – said that the battle flag ought to be lowered. The most striking intervention was made by the governor of South Carolina, Nikki Haley, who denounced the use of the Confederate flag and signed the bill removing it. Haley is now tipped to figure on the list of potential vice-presidential nominees.

The volte-face of the US right is in part a result of the horror of the Charleston shootings. Yet it also occurs in the context of major shifts within American society. There are still many conservatives who will defend Confederate heritage as a matter of southern pride but the culture wars are changing as the US becomes increasingly European in outlook. This is taking place across the country. It just happens to be more pronounced in the South because no other region has fought so violently and so long to resist the liberal tide.

The story of the battle flag is the story of the South. The first official Confederate flag used in the civil war of 1861-65 caused confusion during fighting – through the haze of gun smoke, its design of 13 stars and red and white bars was hard to distinguish from the Stars and Stripes. An alternative blue cross was rejected for being too sectarian; the racist Confederacy was anxious not to offend its Jewish citizens. So the cross became a diagonal X. This flag was never officially adopted by the Confederate army. In the years after the war its use was infrequent.

There was little need to visualise southern difference in a flag. It was self-evident in the physical signs of racial segregation: separate schools, pools and drinking fountains; black people confined to the back of the bus. Political displays of the battle flag of Dixie (the historical nickname for the states that seceded from the Union) only really resurfaced when that racial order was challenged by northern liberals. In 1948, the Democrats – then the party overwhelmingly in control of the South – split over modest calls for civil rights. The conservatives who refused to support that year’s presidential ticket, the “Dixiecrats”, triggered a rev­ival of flag-waving across the region.

The old battle flag suddenly appeared on private lawns, on cars and at political rallies. Supposedly ancient cultural traditions were invented overnight. For instance, the 1948 student handbook of the University of Mississippi confessed: “Many Ole Miss customs are fairly new; they lack only the savouring which time brings . . . Ole Miss has adopted the Confederate flag as a symbol of the Mississippi spirit. Each football game finds the scarlet flag frantically waving to the rhythm of the Rebel band.”

I can confirm that this “tradition” was still going as recently as in 2005. That year, I attended an American football game at Ole Miss and was surprised when the band played “Dixie” at the end. White boys and white girls stood up and belted out the folk song of the Confederacy, while black students filed out.

In 1958, South Carolina made it a crime to desecrate the battle flag. Three years later, on the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of the civil war, it was hoisted above its Capitol building in Columbia. That day, there was a struggle in the US Congress to keep federal funding going for segregated schools.

So clear is the link between the postwar white resistance to civil rights and the battle flag that many see it as the symbolic equivalent of the N-word. Jack Hunter, the editor of the conservative website Rare Politics, says: “Some people insist that it’s not about racism, not about slavery, not about segregation. But it’s about all those things.” Hunter grew up in Charleston and used to skateboard in the car park of the church that Dylann Roof attacked. When he was a young journalist, he appeared on local radio as a rabidly right-wing masked character called “the Southern Avenger”. His past was exposed in 2013 while he was working for Rand Paul, a Republican presidential candidate, and Hunter stepped down from his position. He publicly renounced his youthful association with racial conservatism. He now eschews any romanticism about the Confederate cause and its demand for states’ rights. “States’ rights to do what?” he asks: the right to discriminate against African Americans? He is glad that the State House flag is gone. He ascribes its longevity to ignorance, which was corrected by Roof’s rampage: “It was the first time that [southern Republicans] were able to see a different perspective on this symbol.”

Not everyone agrees. Richard Hines – a former South Carolina legislator, Reagan campaign state co-chair and senior activist with the Sons of Confederate Veterans – insists that the flag is “an enduring symbol of the southern fighting man”. Indeed, a poll in July found that 57 per cent of Americans think it stands for southern heritage, rather than racism. Yet that heritage has a political dimension. “Southern people are proud of who they are and there is a leftist assault to destroy the best part of America,” Hines says. “The Trotskyite elite in control of the establishment wants to root out the southern tradition” – a tradition of religious devotion, chivalry and military honour. It is possible to cast the battle flag as a pawn in a much larger cultural conflict.

In 2000, civil rights activists lobbied hard to get the battle flag removed from the top of the South Carolina Capitol and succeeded in having it shrunk in size and relocated to the grounds of State House. The issue came up in that year’s Republican presidential primaries – an unusually poisonous contest between George W Bush and John McCain. Supporters of Bush put out a false story that McCain had fathered an interracial child out of wedlock. McCain added to his woes by opining that the battle flag was “a symbol of racism and slavery”. An organisation called Keep It Flying flooded the state with 250,000 letters attacking him and he lost the crucial competition here to Bush.

The battle flag has retained a strong emotional power for a long time. This makes the Republican establishment’s abandonment of the flag all the more surprising. Then again, those who run the South are probably the people most likely to grasp how much the region has changed in just a decade.

***

In 2010 I took a trip through North Carolina. The landscape told a story. Dotted along the roadside were abandoned black buildings, the old tobacco sheds. The decline of the rural economy had rendered them obsolete. Over the fields that would once have been full of farmers were freshly tarmacked roads, stretching out to nowhere. My guide explained that these were supposed to be cul-de-sacs for new houses. North Carolina was going through a property boom. But who was going to buy all those homes, I asked? The answer: damn Yankees.

Demography is destiny. This once agri­cultural region developed fast from the 1960s onwards by keeping union membership, taxes and regulation as low as possible. Yet capitalism proved disastrous for southern conservatism. Northerners flooded in, seeking work or retirement and bringing their own values. The forecast is that North Carolina’s Research Triangle – the South’s Silicon Valley – will grow by 700,000 jobs and 1.2 million people in two decades.

White migration was accompanied by an influx of Spanish speakers as the service sector flourished. Between 2000 and 2010, the white share of the population of North Carolina fell from 70 to 65 per cent. The black proportion remained at roughly 21 per cent. The Latino proportion, however, jumped from 4.7 per cent to 8.4 per cent. Today, the proportion of people who are non-white and over 60 is about a third. But it’s approaching nearly half for those under 18. As a result, politics in the South is no longer biracial: a contest between white and black. It is increasingly multiracial and uncoupled from the region’s complex past.

The impact of these changes is reflected in voting patterns. In 2000, the South was still overwhelmingly Republican in presidential contests. Even the Democratic nominee, Al Gore, a southerner, lost his home state of Tennessee. But in 2008 and 2012, Barack Obama took those states with the fastest-changing demographics: Florida and Virginia. He won North Carolina in 2008 and lost it in 2012 – but by less than 100,000 votes. It is true that the Republicans won back control in the 2014 midterm elections, with the result that the Deep South now sends few Democrats to Congress; but the region’s political masters are not quite as traditional-minded as they once were.

The Republican relationship with the Confederate past is complex. As the party of Abraham Lincoln and the Union, the GOPs’ southern support was historically small. But in the 1960s the national Democratic Party embraced civil rights and alienated its once loyal southern following; the Republicans took the opportunity to steal some conservative white voters.

The growing southern Republican vote had a class component. Its success in local and congressional races was built more on winning over middle-class moderates than on appealing to the working-class racists who filled the ranks of the Ku Klux Klan. The southern Republican Party did enthusiastically embrace the Confederate battle flag in many quarters. But some office-holders did so only with ambiguity, while large sections of the party never identified with it at all. The period of Republican ascendancy in the South was, in reality, linked with a softening of the area’s racial politics.

Two of the Republicans’ current southern stars are Indian Americans: Bobby Jindal, the governor of Louisiana, and Nikki Haley, the anti-flag governor of South Carolina. There are just two black people in the US Senate and one of them is a Republican, the Tea Party-backed senator for South Carolina, Tim Scott. Marco Rubio, the Floridian senator and presidential candidate, is Cuban American, and the former Florida governor Jeb Bush is married to a Mexican-born woman and speaks fluent Spanish. Bush has tried to push a more moderate line on immigration, in deference to how the GOP will struggle to win the White House if it appeals only to angry white voters. The Kentucky libertarian senator Rand Paul, Jack Hunter’s former boss, has called for legal reforms to correct the trend of keeping far more black than white people in prison. And he is not the only Republican to have been moved by recent race riots sparked by police violence.

***

Violence on the streets of Ferguson, Missouri, and Baltimore, Maryland, confirmed that there still is a culture war in the US. Yet its character has changed. In the past, civil disturbances were typically leapt upon by conservative politicians as evidence of social decline. The 1992 LA riots were blamed on single parenthood and rap lyrics. In contrast, conservative leaders today are far more likely to acknowledge the problems of white racism. There is no place in their ranks for the likes of Dylann Roof. White supremacists are tiny in number.

Jack Hunter claims: “The KKK is like 12 guys in a telephone booth. Liberal groups will use their threat for fundraising but it doesn’t exist. It hasn’t properly since the 1960s.” Roof’s actions say more about gun control, mental illness and the angst of the young than they do about popular, largely liberal views on race, as polling shows.

We can see a similar liberal shift in other areas of the historic culture war. In May 2015 Gallup released the results of a “moral acceptability” survey charting changes in national attitude across all age groups, from 2001 to 2015. Approval of gay relationships jumped from 40 to 63 per cent; having a baby out of wedlock from 45 to 61 per cent; sex between unmarried men and women from 53 to 68 per cent; doctor-assisted suicide from 49 to 56 per cent; even polygamy went from 7 to 16 per cent. Abortion remained narrowly disapproved of: support for access has only crept up from 42 to 45 per cent. This is probably a result of an unusual concentration of political and religious opposition and because it involves a potential life-or-death decision. But the general trend is that young people just don’t care as much about what consenting adults get up to.

Why? It might be because old forms of identity are dying. One way of measuring that is religious affiliation. From 2007 to 2014, according to Pew Research, the proportion of Americans describing themselves as Christian fell from 78 to 71 per cent. Today, only a quarter of the population is evangelical and 21 per cent Catholic, down despite high immigration. Then there is the decline in civic or communal activity. Since 2012, the organisers of Nascar, the stock-car races, have not published attendance figures at their tracks, probably because they have fallen so sharply. The decline of this most macho and working class of sports parallels the fall in conservative forms of collective identity such as southern traditionalism.

The old culture war was, like the racial politics of the old South, binary. In the 1950s, around the same time as the South invented its tradition of flying the battle flag in colleges, the US constructed an ideal of the “normal” nuclear family unit: straight, white, patriarchal, religious. On the other side was the “abnormal”: gay, black, feminist, atheist, and the rest. The surest way to get elected in the US between 1952 and 2004 was to associate yourself with the economic needs and cultural prejudices of the majority. The approach was once summed up by a Richard Nixon strategist thus: split the country in two and the Republicans will take the larger half. But that is changing. The old normal is no longer the cultural standard but just one of many identities to choose from. The races are mixing. Women want to work more and have children later in life, possibly without marriage. Many religious people are having to rethink their theology when a child comes out as gay. And the enforcers of the old ways – the unions, churches or political parties – are far less attractive than the atomising internet.

***

Politicians are scrabbling to keep up with the diffusion of American identity. Democrats got lucky when they nominated Barack Obama and chose a presidential candidate who reflected the fractured era well: interracial, non-denominational Christian, and so on. In the 2012 presidential race the Republicans got burned when they tried to play the old culture war card on abortion. They won’t repeat that mistake. After the Supreme Court legalised gay marriage across the country in June, the right’s response was not as uniformly loud and outraged as it would have been in the past. Some protested, but serious presidential contenders such as Jeb Bush grasped the implications of the defeat. There is a cultural and political realignment going on and no one is sure where it will lead. It’s encouraging caution among the Republican top brass. It is time, they think, to abandon lost causes.

The death of southern traditionalism is part of the ebb and flow of cultural history. Identities flourish and die. As political fashions change, you find the typically American mix of triumph on one side and jeremiad on the other. Richard Hines stood vigil as the battle flag was lowered in Columbia and noted with disgust the presence of what he described as “bussed-in” activists. “They pulled out all these gay pride flags and started shouting, ‘USA, USA, USA!’ It reminded me of the Bolshevik Revolution.”

Hines reckons that more southerners will now fly the flag than ever before and says he has attended overflow rallies of ordinary folks who love their region. He may well be correct. The faithful will keep the old Confederate standard fluttering on their lawns – an act of secession from the 21st century. But in the public domain, the battle flag is on its way down and in its place will be raised the standard of the new America. The rainbow flag flutters high. For now.

Tim Stanley is a historian and a columnist for the Telegraph

This article first appeared in the 20 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Corbyn wars