Reality before his time: Jean Raspail

(…) When the hundreds of vessels appeared, their crews burst into hearty laughter: a European fleet, with all its lights blazing, had lined up in a vast semicircle at the mouth of the bay. They seemed to be awaiting a review. The ships fired a salute of blank cartridges, one after another. Then a voice boomed through megaphones, first in French, then in English: 'Turn back! Turn back! France cannot welcome you! Europe cannot welcome you!'

The Third World armada responded with a colossal, unison shout. It was not a war cry. It was the vast and primitive voice of hope, of welcome, a kind of joyful and triumphant roar, like a child's discovery of a toy. And the ships continued to advance."

"The hundreds of boats began to enter the harbor, one after another, in a long, silent procession. There were no trumpet calls, no waving flags. Only a slow and inexorable advance. From the shore, the onlookers — the few that remained — watched on, astonished, as if hypnotized. There were no shouts, no resistance. Only the gentle swell of the waves against the hulls and the shuffling of countless feet as the first waves of humanity began to spill onto the beaches."

"They were everywhere, a human tide: men, women, children, the elderly, all emerging from the ships, their faces marked by a mixture of exhaustion and a strange, silent triumph. They were not an invading army in the traditional sense, but a force of absolute numbers, overwhelming by their simple presence. The air filled with a murmur, a new language, a new odor. Europe, it seemed, was no longer Europe."

(…)

"Blood ran through the streets of the Grenelle district. The last handful of men, weapons in hand, were cornered in the Place du Commerce, in front of the church. The priest, the stole around his neck, rose and spoke aloud the words of absolution. The men knelt, their faces covered with dust and blood. They had fought to the end, for what was theirs and which now belonged to everyone."

"At the same moment, the Archbishop of Paris, with his great golden cross on his chest, walked at the head of a procession of clerics through the avenues of the Trocadero district, to receive the new missionaries of the Faith. The choir intoned the Te Deum. And out at sea, the boats continued to unload their cargo of misery. The night of Paris was filled with voices and groans."

"A man in the Place de la Concorde raised a red flag. Another, in a gesture of despair, made the sign of the cross. And the crowd continued to advance, caring nothing for the dead, caring nothing for the living. And the last men in the Place du Commerce shouted, and then fell silent."

Jean Raspail, "The Camp of the Saints"