"French life will go on." Ibrahim Ezzat/NurPhoto/Getty Images

The French have taken to the streets, and some foreign commentators are having the vapours. Last week, Foreign Policy suggested that President Emmanuel Macron’s pension reform “has sparked one of the most serious crises in French history”. Nicholas Vinocur wrote in Politico that “anyone looking at France right now could be forgiven for thinking the country was on the edge of a revolution”.
Please. While the current crisis has worrisome elements, for the moment it still fits squarely into a pattern that has prevailed in French political life for decades. Protestors against Macron’s raising of the retirement age from 62 to 64 have staged large-scale strikes and demonstrations and engaged in some theatrical violence, starting fires in the streets, and clashing with police. But very much the same thing happened in 2016, when the administration of François Hollande introduced labour law reforms, making it easier for companies to lay off workers. It was the same story in 2010, when the administration of Nicolas Sarkozy raised the retirement age from 60 to 62. And also in 2006, when the administration of Jacques Chirac eliminated certain labour protections for young workers. And in 1995, when the Chirac administration introduced a slew of reforms, including raising the retirement age for railroad workers (then set at 55).
Each time, yes, there has been the potential for the confrontations to escalate into something greater. But there is a reason that the great sociologist Charles Tilly called one of his books The Contentious French. To a certain extent, this is simply how contemporary French politics works. In each of the cases just mentioned, the Government insisted that without reform, France would slide into fiscal disaster and economic calamity. In each, the protestors insisted that the reforms would leave France’s vaunted social security net irretrievably shattered. Both sides were in fact engaged in the classic French tactic known as the surenchère — roughly, “overbidding” — and the dire consequences they predicted failed to materialise. In some of the cases, such as in 1995, the administration retreated. In others, such as in 2016, it persevered. French life has gone on. In recent days, the numbers attending the protests have apparently diminished, and it looks more likely than not that Macron will succeed in securing the pension reform.
The contentious pattern of the past few decades can largely be explained by the structure of France’s current Fifth Republic. The republic’s founder, Charles de Gaulle, created a powerful executive that would supposedly exist high above the political fray. In theory, the president would serve as a source of national unity, bringing the people together for the common good. In practice, he has more often acted like an irritable schoolmaster, preaching to the people about what is good for them. It does not help that he is surrounded by cadres of elite technocrats from the so-called grands corps de l’état, who are generally confident that they know better than anyone else how to manage economic and social development. Indeed, for all but seven of the past 30 years, the president has been a graduate of the super-elite École Nationale d’Administration, which finally became such a lightning rod for criticism that Macron, himself a graduate, closed it in 2021.
Macron is the platonic ideal of this type: supremely well-educated, hyper-intelligent, arrogant, and largely tone-deaf to the concerns of his fellow citizens. At the beginning of his first term, in 2017, he boasted that he wanted to preside over France in “Jupiterian” fashion. He and his technocratic advisors convinced themselves that raising the retirement age was crucial for the fiscal health of the French state — though not all analysts agree — and have insisted on pushing the reform through, regardless of the extent of opposition.
The President’s “take your medicine” paternalism has especially rankled because of the way it collides with a widespread egalitarian sensibility that has much deeper roots in France’s republican political culture than the current constitution. Significantly, the arguments that have done the most to galvanise the current protests put less emphasis on the generalised hardship of having everyone work an additional two years, than on the unfairness of asking underpaid workers — especially women — to work extra years for the same inferior retirement benefits. In addition to women, the protests have drawn particularly large numbers in smaller, poorer provincial cities like Morlaix in Brittany, where close to a quarter of the population have turned out for some marches.
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