Where is democracy headed in France? Protester recounts harrowing police violence
One day, during another protest, I spotted a man getting doused with water by a cannon. Protesters approached to help the man down. I stood a few feet away, filming the scene. At that moment, police officers fired an MP7 grenade at me, which hit my body before falling back to my feet. It hadn’t yet exploded, so I protected myself as best I could, knowing it was about to release a terrible amount of tear gas. The impact of the hit caused a massive hematoma on my body. The doctor who examined me could not believe it. The pain felt unbearable. A few centimetres to the left, and it would have killed me.
- 1 year ago
August 18, 2023
After witnessing the way authorities dealt with protesters with such violence, Julien Gate started attending every protest and documenting what he saw in order to raise awareness. The events that unfolded began to scare him as he wondered what the future of the country had in store. | Photo courtesy of Julien Gate
PARIS, France — In January 2019, as protesters marched into the square, I sat on a bench nearby, watching as they held their heads high shouting slogans. A young boy sat next to me, observing the same scene. We struck up a conversation, talking about their bravery and the acts of injustice circulating the news. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a mob of cops in armor heading toward the area. In a matter of seconds, officers threw grenades at the bench where we sat.
The sound deafened our ears as gas spread around us. We choked and the young boy cried and panicked. He screamed, “I’m hurt! My ears! I can’t hear anything!” My body felt frozen. Fearing for the boy’s life, I shouted for a medic. My pleas went ignored as authorities surrounded the rest of entire area, keeping protesters trapped inside the small square. I still hear the boy’s cries today.
The smell of blood and gas filled my nostrils. I could hear screams all around me. Cops began to beat the protesters at the front of the line. At that moment, I felt terrified for the entire country. “What happened to democracy,” I thought. We had every right to be there. Many went home that night with injuries that will mark them forever. Once things calmed down, I managed to get out. On the walk back home, emotions overwhelmed me. Something changed in me forever that day, as though reality snapped me out of delusion. From that moment on, I started attending protests every Saturday, refusing to back down. Now, in 2023, it feels like nothing changed.
Related: Millions protest all over France against pension reform law
The entire world watched the events unfold, yet no one knew the true horror of it
For months, the Yellow Vests Protests consumed news headlines around the world. However, it felt like the accompanying propaganda completely erased our efforts. People thought we were violently smashing things with no purpose, and that we felt angry over having to go to work. They called us lazy and idiotic. Rather than see the real message behind our anger, they felt upset the city no longer seemed like an ideal tourist destination. We became a massive stain on Paris.
I started bringing my camera to every protest, feeling a vital urge to document everything authentically. I remember thinking how beautiful protesters looked, together and individually, in the middle of these giant crowds. Every single one of us came together to fight for a common goal: equality and fairness. A strong sense of camaraderie surrounded and connected us. People who would otherwise never meet in their everyday lives formed bonds and helped each other. I began paying closer attention to each and every one of them, and the slogans written on their jackets. I met incredible people there, many who remain part of my life today.
It gave me the idea to start a series where I photograph the marchers’ backs and show the humanity behind their efforts. As protests continued, so did the unjustified violence at the hands of the police. On top of the beatings and unlawful arrests, they started handing out ridiculous fines in order to scare us. They used our economic precariousness against us. This forced many people to stop attending, fearing they’d be left with nothing. They tried everything to stop our gatherings and drown our voices. It felt terrifying.
I faced another reality: they did not care how badly they hurt us, so long as they succeeded in scaring us
Determined, I kept attending, looking for any way to amplify the protesters’ voices. I was aware of my privilege and wanted to use it for good. One day, during another protest, I spotted a man getting doused with water by a cannon. Protesters approached to help the man down. I stood a few feet away, filming the scene. At that moment, police officers fired an MP7 grenade at me, which hit my body before falling back to my feet. It hadn’t yet exploded, so I protected myself as best I could, knowing it was about to release a terrible amount of tear gas. The impact of the hit caused a massive hematoma on my body. The doctor who examined me could not believe it. The pain felt unbearable. A few centimetres to the left, and it would have killed me.
While I witnessed yet another fight break out between strong armed cops and young protesters merely holding a sign, my heart broke for our nation. Once again, they blocked us from exiting the area while they threw gas grenades at us. It lasted all afternoon, until they ran out of munition. The gas felt so thick, it suffocated us all. As I stood there, choking and in tears, I heard a helicopter floating right above our heads.
A sudden chill coursed through my body. I thought back to my Argentinian grandfather’s stories during the dictatorship, and of our family members that were thrown off a helicopter to their deaths. My chest felt heavy, and I could feel a panic attack coming. As I headed towards an exit, I felt completely broken. None of this felt real.
That violence has not stopped since, and continues at every turn
Even now, thinking about the violence we experienced for simply exercising our right to protest makes me emotional. On June 27, 2023, police officers shot 17-year-old Nahel Merzouk in cold blood at point-blank range. This rightfully angered the nation, and riots quickly ensued. Once again, rather than listening to us, the country was quick to silence us any way they could. Even when Nahel’s grieving mother peacefully marched the streets of Paris to honor her son, police gassed the square and attempted to separate us by force.
Somehow, holding my camera and looking through the lens, I felt less fearful. The lens acted as a wall, while I focused on documenting everything I witnessed. It wasn’t until I watched the tapes back at home that the violence of it all truly sunk in. I began working closely with organizations to help protesters around the country. I even participated in the publishing of a book of photographs to raise awareness about our fight.
France was built on revolution and the Universal Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizens. We usually pride ourselves on our freedom of speech, and our rights in this country. Lately, with the violence we witnessed during the pension reform strikes, and the killing of 17-year-old Nahel, many fear the country is headed towards a dictatorship. Now more than ever is the time for change. This story is not about me, but about the millions of people who risk their lives to stand up to injustice in France. I urge others to get informed and help raise our voices.
