Behold the stunned, slack-jawed French activist, a proud member of the left-wing cabal and one of the loudest, most relentless champions of flinging open the gates to North African migration. Apparently, for years she has whitewashed every riot, rape, and rampage they unleash, shrieking “racism!” at anyone who dares notice the wreckage. She owns a precious little chic boutique in an upscale corner of the country she helped dismantle. When the horde came for it, she planted herself in the doorway like a saint, bleating that she was the famous asylum activist, that she had fought for their entry and their permanent presence, that she was on their side. They spat on her. Knocked her down. Trampled her underfoot. She is lucky to be breathing. They emptied the shop of every last item, the lifetime of work and struggle reduced to empty shelves and broken glass in a single feral afternoon. She ended up on the metal shutters, dazed, staring at the ruins, unable to process that the thieving, rabble-rousing, criminal, barbaric hordes she had spent her entire existence defending and inviting in were the ones who had just fed on her. Because of her celebrity as a defender of North African “refugees,” every French media outlet yesterday plastered her story and her photo in front of the gutted boutique. Poor, bewildered thing, a whole life squandered, and she still cannot grasp the scale of the suicidal stupidity that helped drag France into this ruin. Even when you feed the crocodile, it will still eat you.