Staff Writer and Photographer Thomas Noonan explores French protesting culture, as he captures the organised chaos of the May Day Protest in Paris with his camera.
France is a weird place, and so is our protest culture. We protest (almost) all the time, for seemingly no reason. Every image of street clashes puzzles the international news: why on Earth are the French revolting again? The truth is, our protests are much more than simple political demonstrations. They are a space to socialise, dance, and an outlet for our passions.
The most obvious example of this French peculiarity is May Day, a national holiday to celebrate workers’ rights. Every year, the demonstrations turn into both a party and a riot. Some demonstrators dance, others throw fireworks at riot cops, while others flirt! Let me take you through this year’s May Day protest with me while I take photos!
Before photographing protests, I need to know where and when it is happening, who is coming, and most importantly, what the police are saying. Today, I know the police announced a harsh response to any provocation, so I take a helmet and goggles to protect my head and eyes, and a heavy leather jacket. This should protect me decently from stones, rubber bullets and grenades, and offers some protection from petrol bombs.
Once I’m ready, I take the metro to get to the assembly point, a busy square called Place d’Italie. In the metro, old workers are cracking jokes and sipping beer, while tourists are confused by the chaos. Some of them even get down at Place d’Italie, about to experience peak French culture! As I arrive, I realise that the march has already started, and I need to catch up with the front. As I do so, I notice the internationalist causes are on display. From the Kurdish communist party to the Sri Lankan Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, a terror group proscribed by the EU. Of course, Palestinian and Ukrainian flags are scattered everywhere. All shades of trade unions are here too, from anarchists to radical socialists. The French Communist Party has a stall to buy booze and coffee, while mobile DJs transform the rally into a rave.
As I make my way to the front, two explosions ring very close to me. I recognise the sound of flashbangs. As protesters get away, I put on my helmet and goggles to find two people being dragged on the ground: they are parliamentary attachés to the centre-left Socialist Party being targeted by antifas. Suddenly, a third grenade stuns me, followed by a police charge, making me lose sight of them. Now I am stuck between riot cops and angry protesters. I brace for potential impact while working on my photos, but thankfully, after some shoving and baton strikes, the situation stabilises: the antifas have already disappeared. In less than a minute, a wall of police shields had been formed to establish a perimeter around the parliamentarians who had been attacked, to create a barrier between shops and the demonstration.
The march continued its scenic route, crossing the river while a marching band played some funky jazz. This moment of innocence doesn’t last, unfortunately, disturbed by a heavy police barrage. Tension rises as radicals rile up the crowd, and one protester throwing a firecracker behind the police lines is more than enough to trigger retaliation. Police charged through the crowd, arresting a suspect while beating up anyone in their way, journalists and protesters alike. Meanwhile, a right-wing militant taunts demonstrators, keeping a tally between police and protesters. “1-0 for the protesters!” as the firecracker rang out, “1-1!” as the police charged, “1-2 for the police!” as their rubber grenades exploded, dispersing the crowd. Oddly, he seems to have some special permission to move through police lines, as he would sometimes slip through their shields. Eventually, tensions subside and the march resumes.
The march goes on peacefully for a while. Small cafés, bakeries and bars open along the march are filled with protesters refuelling and resting. I also go for a pain au chocolat and a bottle of water at the next bakery I see. This moment of pleasure is interrupted by the smell of tear gas, which, in my opinion, does not pair particularly well with French pastries, as I’m sure the Italian YouTuber Luis can testify to. Not only is my pastry ruined, but this also means I have to get up and run to the action unless I want to miss good shots. I stuff the rest of my pastry into my mouth and I it down with the water.
Policemen had flanked the march, leading to a fight erupting fight erupted with demonstrators. Police are firing tear gas and rubber grenades, while protesters are throwing rocks and fireworks. Meanwhile, the café on the corner is still open, and its windows make for an interesting perspective. I try to focus on the action, as protesters kick the tear gas canisters back at the police and shower them with rocks. From this, I spot a good shot of the police through the gas and the café window before I see the police getting ready for a charge. Then, I make a run for it, crossing the street through the gas to get to a safer location away from the incoming charge, where I spot a protester standing in the middle, taunting the cops.
Inevitably, the charge separates the march into two before an intervention unit charges from the other side. I decided to follow them as they run back, but another charge stops me in my tracks as two protesters are thrown to the ground by the Gendarmerie, a paramilitary police force often called in for riot control in Paris. Because they’re soldiers, their training and equipment are different, and usually more professional.
Another charge, this time by intervention units of the Paris Police, doesn’t leave anyone lucky, and protesters and journalists alike are beaten and choked before getting snatched and dragged on the ground to be taken into custody, getting kicked to the ground by every policeman on the way. Thankfully, I stayed on the side, but one cop still went out of his way to shove me.
After this, I need a break. Taking photos in French riots isn’t easy work, and all the running around, jumping over obstacles, and crouching to get the best angle killed my legs, and my head is buzzing from the shouting, the grenades, the stress, and adrenaline. I reach the destination before the march gets there, so I can get a 15-minute rest and scope out the situation on the Place de la Nation. Once there, I notice the policemen surrounding the place not wearing their helmets, and a florist selling lilies – a tradition in France marking the 1st of May and the arrival of spring. I sit down on the road where the protest comes from, and I snap shots as people pass. I also notice a couple perched on a window, cuddling by the protest, French romance at its finest!
Trade unions and political parties come and go, blasting all kinds of music, dancing and singing. Largely, French protests are just big parties, with everything from techno to rock classics. The new generation of Trotskyists dance to techno music, while the old guard solemnly sings the Internationale, fists raised. A vendor pushes a cart around selling water, beer and snacks; next to me, a hot dog stand is grilling sausages and caramelising onions – a real staple of French protest is the tear-gas infused onions and mustard hot dog that’s somehow both burnt and undercooked yet so satisfying!
Once people start leaving, police begin emptying the square. As I approach the police line to take photos, one policeman grabs me by the arm, pushing me around, threatening to crush my camera if I keep taking pictures, despite my repetitive explanation that I’m not a demonstrator. He only leaves me after pushing me 5 meters away, when his colleague grabs him to bring him back to the police line. I then head towards a sector run by the Gendarmerie. An officer tells his men to don their helmets, and I follow the order as I stick around with some journalists. The police line surrounds us to push us into the bushes. Thankfully, the gendarmes allow journalists to pass through the line, so our little group can stay behind, allowing me to get some nice shots as the gendarmes go through the bushes.
As protesters are pushed into the metro station, someone plays the Imperial March from Star Wars, getting a chuckle out of the police. After a few pictures, my camera battery finally died. When I get home, I’ll have to spend a few hours sifting through the hundreds of pictures I just took to select the 10% that I might keep. But the selection process is another story, and a much more boring one.
