Jean-Marie Le Pen and Joan of Arc
By Constantin von Hoffmeister
Jean-Marie Le Pen, gone at 96, will not rest in peace because peace never suited him. France, that twisted lover, a nation forever at war with her own skin, has buried him, the man who refused to bow to the new gods of “progress” and sameness. He snarled at the polite lies of modernity, tore through the lies like a wolf through silk. “We do not hate the Turks; we love them, but in their country,” he said, pulling the ghosts of old Europe out of their graves, his words a jagged blade. And Joan of Arc, centuries dead, heard him. She rose from her pyre, her armor scorched but shining. Joan loved the English — but only in their country. “I do love them,” she told her judges, her enemies, “but I love France more.” This is where Le Pen and Joan meet: in their refusal to kneel, in their love for something greater than themselves.
Joan, sixteen and feral, heard voices in the fields of Domrémy, herding sheep under a sky that bled holy light. Saints spoke to her — Michael, Catherine, Margaret — telling her to save France, to drive the English out, to crown Charles at Reims. She was not polite about it. She demanded an army, and she got one. Imagine her, a girl dressed as a boy, cutting through soldiers with a sword she claimed was from God. The enemy called her a witch, a whore, an abomination. France called her a savior. Le Pen was not guided by angels. He had his own visions. France, to him, was a woman bleeding out, her body pierced by the swords of globalization, immigration, and cultural decay. He was not gentle about it either. He did not save his France with a sword but with words — sharp, direct, unapologetic words.
Le Pen came out of the rubble of post-war France, a country broken and ashamed. Born in Brittany in 1928, he grew up with the humiliation of Vichy and the weight of a France that had lost her way. He joined the Foreign Legion, fought in Indochina and Algeria, wars that burned into him the belief that France was under siege. Not just by armies but by ideologies, by the creeping shadows of global homogenization. He was a soldier without a battlefield, so he made his own. The National Front, founded in 1972, became his weapon, his crusade. He spoke for the forgotten, the silenced, the angry. He called out the elites, the “colonizers of Brussels,” and the technocrats who, he believed, sold France’s soul for a seat at the globalist table. He wanted a pure France, a France of villages and cathedrals, not mosques and shopping malls. Joan would have understood.
Joan’s trial was hell, a circus of enemies eager to break her. The English hated her because she had humiliated them on the battlefield. The French Church hated her because she bypassed its authority. Her gender, her visions, her victories — they were too much for her time. She stood before her judges, unbroken, answering their traps with sharp, unyielding logic. They burned her anyway. Her ashes were scattered in the Seine, as if her fire could be extinguished. Le Pen was not burned, but he was tried again and again — in the courts, in the media, in the salons of Paris. They called him a racist, a xenophobe, a fascist. His words scorched; his sentences turned to fire. He never recanted. Like Joan, he refused to betray his mission.
Joan’s France was sacred, a kingdom ordained by God, her rivers and fields blessed by holy blood. Le Pen’s France was cultural, historical, a land of poets and farmers, of medieval spires and stubborn pride. He did not claim divine revelations. His message carried its own fervor. France, for him, was not just a place. She was a soulful woman who needed to be defended. He fought for her as Joan had fought centuries before, although their battles were different. Joan faced the swords and arrows of the English; Le Pen faced lawsuits, protests, and the scorn of a globalized world. Both stood their ground, defiant in the face of their enemies.
Joan rode into Orléans like a storm, her banner raised high, her soldiers roaring her name. The city was liberated; the tide of the war turned. She marched to Reims and crowned Charles VII, fulfilling her divine mission. But victory made her enemies more determined. When she was captured by the Burgundians and sold to the English, they sought to destroy her body as well as her spirit. Le Pen’s victories were not on the battlefield. They were in the polls. In 2002, he shocked France by reaching the second round of the presidential election, a moment that sent shockwaves through the establishment. His enemies tried to destroy him, but each trial only strengthened his legend among his followers.
Joan was declared innocent decades after her death, her name restored, her sainthood eventually secured. The Church canonized her in 1920, making her a symbol of French unity and faith. Le Pen, of course, will never be declared a saint. His legacy is tangled, controversial, loved and loathed in equal measure. But he did not need the Church’s approval. His sainthood, if it exists, lives in the hearts of his supporters, the millions who saw in him a defender of France. His daughter, Marine Le Pen, carries his banner now, softer in tone but carrying the same message: France must remain French. “I love them in their country,” Joan said. Jean-Marie Le Pen said after her: “We do not hate them; we love them, but in their country.”
Joan and Le Pen both understood the power of symbols. Joan’s banner, painted with the names of Jesus and Mary, led soldiers into battle, a visual manifestation of her divine mission. Le Pen invoked Joan as a symbol of nationalism, a saint who fought for France against foreign domination. Critics sneered, calling it opportunistic. For Le Pen’s followers, it was a spiritual connection: the maid of Orléans and the man from Brittany, both warriors for the glory of France. One wielded a sword, the other wielded words — both were willing to fight.
Le Pen was not loved by history, and neither was Joan, at least not in their lifetimes. Joan was burned alive, her ashes scattered to the wind. Le Pen was burned metaphorically, his reputation shredded, his words twisted, his image vilified. But history has a way of changing its mind. Joan became a saint, her story rewritten into a tale of heroism and faith. Le Pen’s story is not finished; his daughter’s rise and the continuing strength of the National Rally suggest that his ideal France might yet find its place.
Le Pen’s death marks the end of an era, but his legacy is alive, restless, and defiant. The National Rally, now rebranded but carrying the same fire, continues to rise. For his supporters, Le Pen was a politician and a prophet, a man who saw the dangers of globalization and the loss of identity long before others did. For his detractors, he will always be a demagogue, a voice of “hate.” But like Joan, Le Pen will not be forgotten. Both remain symbols of a France that refuses to bow, a France that fights for her soul.
The King is dead. Long live the King!
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