Yellow Vests, have you heard of what happened in France these past few weeks? Unless you live in autarky, completely cut off from the outside world, on an island or in a cave or other secluded place far from any sign of civilization, you may have heard of them. Well, for those who do not read or watch the news, Yellow Vests refers to a protest movement initially launched against the increase of fuel taxes, which, according to the French government, would be necessary to prepare the ecological transition to greener means of transport. Frankly, if we just stop on this shortcut: increasing fuel taxes equal ecological transition to save the planet. Protesting against this tax can be seen as a complete selfish and clumsy move.
But if you study the question and look at the law text even just at the surface, you will soon realize that only a small portion of these taxes will be allocated to the energy transition (up to 20% of the taxes). The rest is shared between regions and departments of France and the governmental agency dedicated to transport infrastructure funding... But most of all the State will cash in the biggest part of this tax increase. Do you start to realize what is happening here? This fuel tax growth will be utilized to balance the government’s coffers; you know the one our leaders use to finance their lifestyle, to fill the hole left empty by the removal of France’s Wealth tax... Basically, ecological transition is just a pretext for this state-organized racket.
Initially, the yellow vests movement is born of the motorists’ anger concerning a fuel taxing situation considered by most, unbearable. For your information, the price of oil continues to plummet to its lowest level in the last 12 months. Even if this social protest has no leader nor clear claims other than the protection of purchasing power which is shrinking reform after reform and the right to live with dignity, not only for the most vulnerable layer of French society, but also for a large part of the country’s middle class. That’s why the Yellow Vests does not only include indignant motorists, but it also includes angry retirees and students who have been let down by the government... It is a whole nation who expresses his anger against the voters of laws that never seem to be that disconnected from their citizens. I see in this protest the cry of a people tired of having to serve the same privileged people. Even if for decades French people fought about “Droite” and “Gauche” political cleavage, for me it has always been a class struggle. The upper class against the lower class.
This is under this tense context in November, 24, that I was heading toward the gathering place of the movement for their second week-end of protest on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris. Few subway stations were preventively closed that day. I step out of the subway at Saint-Philippe-du-Roule station. Once automatic doors opened, the ambient air instantly irritated my throat. The smell of tear gas filled the whole underground pathway while the Avenue des Champs-Elysees is located more than 400 meters away. My scarf stuck to my nose, I left the station. The smell was even harder to bear on the surface. I was drowned in this flood of yellow vests, but my eyes could not look away from the column of black smoke in the middle of the portion of the La Boétie Street leading to the most beautiful avenue in the world. My camera in the right hand, scarf stuck against the nose with my left hand, I walked with caution towards the burning hearth. Wooden burning pallets stacked on the width of the road only left empty a narrow path to the Champs-Elysees.
Behind this wall of fire, was hiding a veil of tear gas that the wind had not dispersed yet. The screams and insults of the protesters were mixed with the detonations of the grenades that the police forces utilized in excess. I could see many people fleeing this cloud of gas before my eyes began to seriously burn. It was less than five minutes since I left the metro station and I was already in tears, eyes reddened by this gas. It was not my first participation in a social protest, but I came completely naked. No helmet, no mask and no goggles... A beginner's error.
A yellow vest sheltered in a door recess and protected from gas, seeing me in pain, offered me to share his hiding space. It took five minutes for the effect of gas to disappear, after which my sight fully recovered. I then joined the main avenue, the same avenue that I had walked down, a few weeks ago, had completely changed. Restaurants’ terrace furniture, each object, street facilities that were not firmly fixed were disassembled, scattered in the middle of the avenue as an urban dam against the police. Holes in the ground could testify about the anger of some protesters who scratched, torn pavement apart to use it as projectiles. In a total indifference, signal lights sadly strewn on the ground were still signaled the right of pedestrians to safely cross the roadway. On both sides of the avenue, fires were lit above which columns of black smoke escaped and gave me the impression of being in the middle of a war zone.
I decided to go up the avenue to the Arc de Triomphe to immortalize this moment with a giant brazier in the foreground. Despite what the media say, there was a rather relaxed atmosphere on the street. The present population was of course composed of protesters, but also residents and tourists with their smartphones in their hand filming everything. This picture contrasted a lot with the one of extreme violence that media want to spread. Admittedly, road equipment, construction site vehicles and restaurant furnitures were degraded, but this was only the work of a tiny part of the protestors.
I followed the march towards the Place de la Concorde, heavily protected by dozens of police and gendarme trucks. Moreover, apart from a few exit routes, each street adjacent to the avenue was blocked by the police, their shields, batons and grenades. What shocked me the most that day was the constant fog of gas coming down and up the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, fed at regular intervals by many drops of tear gas that fell from the sky and hit the ground with little metallic sound. The gas seemed alive and animated by his own will to hunt and disperse the people around him. As I advanced towards Place de la Concorde, without noticing it, I found myself in the no man's land that separated the protesters and the police. I then turned around to look up the street. I was impressed by what I saw. I also took a small picture, because words could not express what I feel at this moment.
On this front line, water cannons were used to disperse the crowd. Many brave were still facing the powerful jets. I saw a man, a sturdy fellow, brandishing a French flag to be targeted by one of these, directly in the face. His head was thrown back with such violence that his body had no choice but to follow. He fell to the ground, head first. Immediately a wall of protesters stood between him and the cannon, while another group rushed to take care of him and took him to a safer place. His crime? Peacefully expressing his displeasure. He was in no way threatening. The police violence was crazy that day. Many videos can attest of that on social media.
It was in that moment that I could see the first and rare throws of pavement against the police forces. Fuck! I found myself on the wrong side. So absorbed by the shot, I had gone a little too far. Now around me, there were only those guys dressed in navy blue, highly protected in their suits, with their helmets, masks and shields. Everything they need to face pavements that were flowing in their direction. I was still naked. I will buy at least a helmet for the next protest. We are never careful enough.
I spent a few hours in the vicinity of the Champs-Elysees, going up and down the avenue. I also made a small detour to Avenue Matignon, where French President lives. The street was guarded by large trucks of police and gendarmes and few meters high barriers. My eyes have reddened on many occasions. A grenade exploded ten meters away from me with a thunderous sound. The security forces managed to push back a small group of Yellow Vests towards the street of Boétie. I was part of this group, trying in vain to escape a cloud of gas. At that moment, the sun managed to make its way through this toxic fog, to reveal a magnificent light. Despite the pain, one eye barely ajar, I could somehow capture this moment.
After that, the night quickly fell and the red Christmas lights added a little more ardent touch to the protest’s picture. Me, I returned home after four hours watching the sky for projectiles to dodge, relieved to be safe and uninjured and glad to be able to take pretty shots.
I hope you enjoyed this little story. Do not hesitate to share this article around you. The more visitors there are, the happier I am! If you want to see all the pictures of this day, click HERE! See you next time, take care!
KITOFOTO