To take France's temperature as next year's presidential election campaign gathers steam, I asked a cross-section of French people to write a portrait of their country in 250 words. The result (click here to read) is a mosaic of opinions reflecting the concerns of French men and women of all ages and backgrounds, from a CEO of a multinational company to a pupil in a deprived area of Marseilles, from a political adviser to Nicolas Sarkozy to a young woman of north African origin, from a rural mayor to a top graduate of the Ecole nationale d'administration. The only common thread is that during the past year or so, each person has been interviewed for this column, and thus has contributed to my—and hopefully Prospect readers'—knowledge of France.
Underlying many of the contributions is a sense of unease. Several writers mention last November's riots in the tower-block banlieues, or the student unrest in spring over the contrat première embauche (see Prospect, May 2006). Nobody deludes themselves that the issues which sparked these have gone away. Then there is the fear that next year's presidential election will be a horrible repeat of the last, when Le Pen got into the second round run-off.
But the unease also stems from something else, although it is scarcely mentioned in the texts. Two years ago, France defined herself through Europe. No longer. The result of the referendum on the European constitution was an enormous shock to the French. In one night, something which had taken 50 years to build was sabotaged, and at the same time French people's deep-seated belief in those who guide them was shattered—for politicians of all hues, as well as the entire media, had told them to vote yes. Perhaps this explains the present fear: a society which obeys its elite has some semblance of security—if the boat hits the rocks, the captain can be blamed. But once the crew has mutinied, the wide ocean is much more frightening.
Many of the texts express a strong sense that France is a divided society. It no longer feels like une République indivisible, as defined in article one of the constitution, nor is it the republic of egalité which la France d'en haut would have us believe. The fault lines run in different directions: for one writer, the divide is between disadvantaged country people and incoming townies living off welfare; for another, it is between those living in the real (business) world and those still trotting out a befuddled mishmash of post-Gaullist, post-Marxist, post-hippy slogans. For some there is a dangerous generational divide: older people, cushioned in the 35-hour week and coasting to a long and generous retirement, refuse to give up their "acquired privileges," even though they know they drive the country deeper into debt. Meanwhile, their children and grandchildren are waking up to the fact that it is they who will have to pay off this debt. This causes resentment, for the young don't want to give up their privileges either, especially concepts like the job for life, so ingrained in the French mentality. Solidarity and sharing, as many complain, do not exist in France any more—another nail in the coffin of the revolutionary ideal.
Some things remain unchanged—all but one writer expresses a deep love of France. As one puts it, France is "an old friend, the kind of friend who can sometimes be unbearable, but to whom, eventually, every sin is forgiven." Many extol the beauty of France's landscapes, of her women, of her food. One writer commits the heresy of saying that you have to go abroad to "meet people who like to work and believe in the future." But even he admits that, on returning, "we say to each other 'How beautiful France is—what a lovely place to live!'"
France is in a state of suspended animation—waiting to see not only who will be president this time next year, but also whether (and how) she can pull herself back from the brink. Even if they don't know how, most writers are confident that France can recover, although one suggests it doesn't matter one way or the other: "There will always be books, films, literature," adding that, even in her present state, France is less dishonourable than Britain.
Another asks: "Should we bother to fix France? Convert the revolutionary soul of the French people into a pragmatic and reasonable mind? Forbid smoking in bars; punish being late; outlaw going on strike for a worthless cause? To a certain extent it would ease daily life, make the country more civilised and productive. But," she adds sagely, "too drastic a cure would also flatten the flesh of France." And nobody would want that!
"In France," William Boyd once told a French magazine, "everyone has an opinion on everything." More recently, Le Figaro implied the same thing when it announced that France, which was so slow to take up the internet, now has more blogs than any other country—the French are simply dying to tell everyone what they think. That's why they invented the café—a place for people of all classes to rub shoulders and air their views through a pungent fog of tobacco smoke. Maybe our portraits give a flavour of that.
