In classical literature, Cassandra is depicted as a harbinger of impending peril to whom none listened in her doomed and beloved city of Troy. Today, the number of Cassandras cry out about a formidable array of signs pointing to the old Christian West's denial and ignorance of the demographic, legal, and religious intentions of Islam.
I will not name the blogs, you probably know most of them if you are a regular reader of The Four Mass'keteers; two I am fortunate to say are posted by my personal friends. The Catholic bloggers among them -- and I count myself among them -- consider the heirs of Christendom at the height of its finest hour to be no account wastrels who have given up and gone to seed. Like Jack and the choirboys in Golding's Lord of the Flies, they have not only let the signal fire go out, they have begun tribal, pagan practices as orgies, infanticide, and delapidation of the walls that once offered protection and the temples that safeguarded truth, beauty, and goodness.
To the blogging Cassandras, it seems that if Islam wants to gain its world-wide domination and "peace" [Dar al-Islam], the children of the West seem only too willing to provide the foot-baths, change the laws, cloak their women, and relinquish any signs of strength, virtue, and chivalry ... as long as the party lasts and the dope holds out. The West's motto? "Yeah, whatever, man. Pass me another toke."
The Cassandras at moments wonder if these wastrels are worth worrying our heads about, particularly since the mammoth, bell-shaped curve of westerners slumber and do not perceive any threat.
My one piece of advice to western nations is this: demand reciprocity when it comes to the freedoms of immigrants. If a country like, say, Saudi Arabia does not allow Bibles to be distributed within it, do not allow immigration into the western country by citizens of that nation. If freedom of religion is not allowed, do not allow immigration into the western country. It is a simple -- and no doubt simplistic -- action, but it is to a degree measurable.
As a Cassandra, I'd love to finally be proved a Chicken Little. But for now, I'll keep the sword upstairs, the dog loose, and the Catechism handy.