Europe between freedom and a caliphate with the hammer and sickle on the frontispiece

The other day I saw, in Brașov, in preview, the film Fjord, by Cristian Mungiu. I left the cinema with that rare feeling that a film that makes you think leaves you with: it doesn't give you answers, but rather disturbs your certainties. It makes you wonder if the things you believe in with such conviction are, in fact, as obvious as they seemed before.

Mungiu has a special talent for constructing moral conflicts in which no one holds the whole truth and no one can be condemned without a doubt. Each character defends his own convictions with the sincerity of someone who believes he is on the side of good. And this is where the unease begins: what happens when two conceptions of good, each justified in the eyes of the one who supports it, end up being mutually exclusive?

In Fjord, the confrontation between two visions of family, education, and individual freedom goes far beyond the particularities of the Norwegian society in which the action takes place. It confronts us with a question that concerns the very condition of Western civilization: how far can tolerance go without negating the principles that made it possible?

Seen from this perspective, the images of violence on the streets of Paris, Berlin, Milan and other major European cities take on a special meaning. Beyond the confrontation between different values, however, a deeper question arises: What happens when one of these conceptions is no longer content to coexist with the others, but claims to impose itself on the entire society?

The social and political causes of these tensions cannot of course be ignored. But they bring to the fore a deeper issue: where does the right to assert one's own beliefs end and where does challenging the principles that guarantee everyone the freedom to hold different beliefs begin?

The modern West built its value edifice on the principles of freedom, tolerance, pluralism and respect for diversity. However, these values, long considered components of a harmonious whole, have come to conflict with each other. Thus, the society that consecrated tolerance as a fundamental principle is today faced with an inevitable question: What does it do when confronted with values, traditions or behaviors that challenge the very principles on which it is founded?

I was left with the impression that Mungiu is trying to capture precisely this contradiction: the intolerance that can hide behind a discourse about tolerance. He does not simply oppose two value systems, but suggests that two apparently incompatible forms of moral authority can end up functioning according to the same logic: each is convinced that they possess the truth, each considers their own values ​​to be superior, and each is tempted to impose them on others.

The paradox suggested by Mungiu's film is not limited to the confrontation between two conceptions of morality, however. We find it, in a perhaps even more surprising form, in the conjunctural alliances of the present. In the same manifestations, the social demands of the radical left, climate activism, feminist and LGBT rights movements, but also discourses associated with political Islam, come to meet.

Greta Thunberg, who became famous for her activism against climate change, has also been involved in mobilizations for the Palestinian cause, alongside trade union organizations and anti-capitalist movements. Of course, solidarity with the civilian Palestinian population does not mean adherence to political Islam. You can share a cause with someone without sharing their ideology. The question is, however, where does solidarity for a legitimate cause end and where does the willingness to turn a blind eye to the violation of the principles you claim to defend begin.

What can feminism, which claims the emancipation of women, LGBT activism, which defends the freedom of the individual to live their own identity, and political Islam, whose radical interpretations subordinate precisely these freedoms to religious norms, have in common? And, above all, What is the connection between solidarity with the Palestinian people and the devastation of Jewish shops in France? How could such acts alleviate the suffering of a single child in Gaza?

The answer to these contradictions lies not in a common societal project, but in identifying a common adversary: the political, social and cultural order of the West. In such circumstances, a legitimate humanitarian cause can easily be transformed into an instrument of an ideological confrontation that risks throwing the world into chaos.

The romanticization of radicalism and the fascination of a part of the European left with the symbols of communism are striking. We still see young people today parading under flags with the hammer and sickle or wearing T-shirts with the portrait of Che Guevara, convinced that they are displaying the symbols of freedom, rebellion and the fight against injustice.

But I wonder how many of those who wear Che Guevara's face with such pride really know his biography. How many know that, behind the romantic image of the revolutionary with a beret and an eye fixed on the bright future, there is a bloody communist militant? How many know his role at La Cabaña prison in Havana, where, after the victory of the Cuban revolution, hundreds of executions took place following revolutionary trials?

Communist propaganda managed to transform a character with blood on his hands up to his elbows into a universal symbol of freedom. And Western commercial culture perfected the paradox, transforming his face into a consumer product, sold by the very capitalist system that Guevara wanted to demolish.

This ability of communism to cloak its ambitions for power in the guise of noble causes is not new. The Soviet Union transformed the legitimate struggle of African peoples for independence into an instrument of its own geopolitical expansion. Under the slogans of national liberation and the fight against imperialism, Moscow armed and trained revolutionary movements, exported communist ideology, and fueled conflicts that devastated entire continents. In dozens of African states, the promise of liberation was followed by bloody civil wars, famine, and decades of suffering.

Moscow offered them Kalashnikovs and talked about freedom. But behind the rhetoric of emancipation lay a cynical geopolitical calculation: weakening Western influence and expanding its own sphere of power. African peoples wanted independence and dignity. The Kremlin sought allies, bases of influence and strategic advantages in the confrontation with the United States and former colonial powers. And the price of this competition was paid, above all, by the populations transformed into victims of wars fought in their name.

The method did not disappear with the Soviet Union. The Kremlin's official ideology has changed, but not its willingness to exploit political radicalism in confrontation with the West. Today's Russia supports or amplifies movements at opposite ends of the ideological spectrum. Some preach social revolution, others radical nationalism and sovereignism, and still others dream of establishing a global caliphate. Some want to demolish capitalism, others claim to defend traditional values. The ideologies are mutually exclusive, but that doesn't bother Moscow. For the Kremlin, their contradictions are irrelevant as long as they have the same adversary: ​​the West.

How unexpected such connections can be is shown by the investigation conducted by Italian prosecutors into the violence and devastation in Milan. According to the ANSA agency, Italian prosecutors have detained Youssef Siher, a 30-year-old Italian of Moroccan origin, a political science graduate, researcher of Islamic movements and former president of a radical Muslim students' association. Investigators suspect him of being behind the "October 17 Movement", which mobilized participants in violent demonstrations through social networks.

The detail that attracts attention, however, is that investigators are investigating his links to the pro-Russian hacker group NoName057(16), known for cyberattacks against Western institutions.

For the Kremlin, it doesn't matter what color flag the radicals march under — be it the red flag with the hammer and sickle, the Palestinian flag, or the flags of separatist movements. What matters is the direction in which they direct their anger. If the target is the Western democratic order, the differences between the far left and the far right become irrelevant.

But in order for such causes to be instrumentalized, they must first be invested with a moral authority that will shelter them from any uncomfortable questioning. This is where the old mechanism of romanticizing revolution comes into play: a cause presented as noble ends up justifying almost any means, and radicalism is confused with virtue.

The history of Europe and Latin America provides telling examples. In West Germany, the Baader–Meinhof terrorist group resorted to assassinations and attacks in the name of the fight against imperialism and capitalism. In Italy, the Red Brigades transformed the ideal of proletarian revolution into a campaign of kidnappings and assassinations, the emblematic episode of which was the murder of former Prime Minister Aldo Moro. And in Latin America, the Cuban communist regime supported and trained guerrilla movements that promised to liberate peoples from exploitation and imperialism. Although they had different origins and developments, these movements were inspired by the revolutionary ideology promoted by Moscow, and some benefited from the direct or indirect support of the states of the Soviet bloc.

We still find this romanticism today in the fascination with communist symbols displayed on European streets, in the idealization of emblematic figures of activism, such as Greta Thunberg, and in the way in which the slogan “Free Palestine” is transformed from a call for solidarity with the civilian population into an instrument of ideological confrontation with the West. Within such mobilizations, legitimate social demands, such as protests against rent increases, end up coexisting with discourses of political Islamism, neo-Marxist radicalism, militant anti-Westernism and, in many cases, anti-Semitism.

But there is another, perhaps even deeper paradox, which concerns the relationship of contemporary Europe with its own cultural heritage. In old Europe you can see churches transformed into restaurants, bars and nightclubs. Of course, the secularization of society and the decrease in the number of believers explain, to a large extent, such transformations. But the image of places of worship turned into entertainment spaces also has a symbolic meaning: a civilization that is gradually moving away from its own religious and cultural tradition is confronted, at the same time, with ideologies that claim an increasingly important role for religion in organizing society and regulating individual life.

I am not advocating a return to a confessional society, nor am I advocating the restriction of religious freedom. On the contrary, the secular character of the state and freedom of conscience are among the most important conquests of European civilization. But that is precisely why the question becomes inevitable: Can a society retain its freedom and tolerance when it begins to consider its own cultural heritage a burden, hesitating to confront ideologies that challenge the very fundamental principles of its democratic order?

Returning to the dilemma indirectly raised by Mungiu's film, the question is: where does tolerance, as an expression of freedom, end, and where does suicidal tolerance begin, which allows for the contestation and, ultimately, the demolition of the principles on which our very civilization is founded?

Empathy for a cause and the popularity of a symbol do not guarantee the rightness of all the ideas associated with them, just as the nobility of a cause does not confer legitimacy on anyone who claims to represent it. Violence does not become a virtue when it is committed in the name of revolution, just as repression does not become freedom simply because it is justified by the promise of a more just society.

You can protest capitalism, you can demand a change in the social order, you can empathize with the civilians in Gaza, or you can challenge the policies of your own government. You can criticize institutions, traditions, and even the foundations of the constitutional order. But there is a profound contradiction in claiming the freedoms offered by Western civilization and, at the same time, advocating for the demolition of the fundamental value principles that make a free and integrated society possible.

A democracy that can no longer distinguish between protester and aggressor risks turning freedom into a privilege of the most violent.

The problem of contemporary Europe, however, is much deeper than the inability of a part of the left-wing political elites to look lucidly at their own failures: generous social policies, most of the time lacking sustainability, integration policies that have not achieved their objectives, and a model of asymmetrical multiculturalism, which has favored the emergence of parallel societies, in which European values ​​and norms no longer constitute common benchmarks.

The problem, however, is not just one of social policy, immigration or integration. It is about a deeper intellectual and moral mutation, produced under the influence of ideological currents that have transformed the opposition between oppressors and oppressed into the main criterion for interpreting and judging reality.

In this view, it is not so much what an individual does that matters, but the category in which he is placed. If he belongs to a group considered oppressed, even radical behavior benefits from an almost automatic presumption of moral justification. If, on the contrary, you defend individual responsibility, the moral landmarks of European civilization, order or the right to property, you become suspect by the very position you occupy.

This leads to absurd situations in which the aggressor is sought for social, historical and ideological justifications, while the victim is asked to show understanding and tolerance. The one who breaks the window is presented as the product of a systemic injustice. The one whose shop was destroyed must understand the context.

Evolutionary psychologist Gad Saad described, in his book The Parasitic Mind, what he calls "parasitic ideas": ideological constructs that, in his interpretation, end up hijacking people's ability to reason critically. In a later work, Suicidal Empathy, he develops a complementary idea, that of "suicidal empathy": the situation in which compassion, detached from reason, responsibility and the assessment of consequences, can end up undermining the very institutions and values ​​that make a free society possible.

This is the great paradox of the contemporary West. Societies that have built some of the most advanced systems of protecting individual rights risk destroying their own institutions when they confuse tolerance with abdication of law enforcement and empathy with suspension of moral judgment.

A healthy society cannot be indifferent to inequalities, discrimination or exclusion. But neither can it accept that belonging to a group considered vulnerable confers, in itself, a status of moral superiority, just as belonging to a category perceived as privileged cannot, in itself, constitute a presumption of guilt.

Europe's response to radicalism and extremism must not be to abandon its own freedoms. That would mean giving its opponents the very victory they seek. On the contrary, Europe must reaffirm the principles that have made a free society possible: individual responsibility, respect for property, the legitimate authority of the law, freedom of conscience and equality before the law for all.

These are values ​​that the European conservative tradition has defended and continues to claim, but which ultimately belong to the entire Western democratic civilization. They are not the property of an ideology or a political family. They constitute the foundation of an order in which individual freedom and responsibility towards the community are not mutually exclusive, but mutually conditioned.

European civilization is today facing a historical dilemma. It can continue on the path of relativizing its own values, risking repeating, in a different form, the destiny of the Western Roman Empire, or it can rediscover the principles that have ensured its vitality and ability to reinvent itself for centuries.

The comparison with the fate of Rome, however, requires a crucial distinction. Roman civilization was so powerful that its influence survived the collapse of imperial authority in the West. The Germanic peoples who founded kingdoms in the territory of the former empire adopted, in various forms, the Latin language, Roman law, Christianity, and many institutions of the world they had conquered. Rome lost political power, but an essential part of its civilization continued to shape Europe.

The question is whether Europe today still has the same strength of cultural integration. To what extent is a demographically aging Europe, unsure of its own identity and increasingly reluctant to affirm the values ​​that built it, still capable of integrating communities with hostile religious and cultural traditions, without losing its own cultural and value identity?

This raises a second, equally important question: to what extent are radical currents willing to accept Western pluralism, the secular nature of the state, and individual freedoms? Or, on the contrary, do they use the freedoms guaranteed by European democracies merely as instruments to impose their own political, religious, and cultural order, in which these very freedoms would be suppressed?

Thus, the fundamental dilemma is no longer just what kind of Europe we will leave to future generations. The question is: Will the Europe of future generations still be a Europe of freedom, democracy and the rule of law? Or a continent on whose ruins a caliphate could be erected, with a hammer and sickle on its frontispiece, in which individual rights would be replaced by the authority of social and religious dogmas?

A society that gives up defending its own cultural and constitutional identity does not become more tolerant. Respect for diversity does not imply the acceptance of parallel legal orders, just as freedom does not oblige democracy to passively witness its own demolition.

The current tensions and confrontations on the streets of Europe can become the occasion for a much-needed awakening of European consciousness. They can lead European societies, from West to East, to reaffirm their common values, to rediscover their solidarity and to understand that freedom, democracy and the secular character of the state are not irreversible conquests.

But the same confrontations can also mark the beginning of a historic capitulation: the moment when Europe, in the name of tolerance, begins to abdicate its own principles in the face of political radicalism and religious fanaticism.

Eastern Europe has, in this regard, a historical experience that the continent cannot afford to ignore. Societies that have known communist totalitarianism know how easily freedom can be suppressed in the name of ideals proclaimed as noble. This experience is not only a tragedy of the Eastern European past, but also a warning for the future of all of Europe.

Civilizations do not always disappear under the blows of those who are hostile to them. Sometimes the end begins much more discreetly: when people stop believing in the things they have inherited, when freedom seems to them a given, and the values ​​that made it possible are no longer worth the effort to defend, in their eyes.

And perhaps this is the most tragic sign of decline: not that a civilization can be defeated, but that, one day, it may no longer know why it is worth surviving.