Resolutionary

Foreword

Here's a thing that happened to me in bumfuck France while married to my first husband. It is 11 pages long and has a shitton of footnotes and hyperlinks too! I have talked to multiple French people about this and nobody seems to know anything about this. I don't understand why I lived this. I am but a Canadian chick; I am just doing my thing. This is not a funny story, this is a rabbit hole of bullshit. I do not recommend smoking weed or being under the influence of anything while reading this, because it is fucking dense and frankly boring to most people. I am a high school dropout and I learned how to make footnotes on Google Docs to make this thing about the Légion étrangère¹ and the plight of farmers and the militarization of France. But I said "bumfuck" so now you definitely want to read this. If I could write this and finish it, you can read it, and also you can do anything. Big ups to my partner for writing this foreword in my voice because frankly I am too tired to do it myself, this shit took me so long.

1. ↩ A corps of the French Army that allows foreign nationals to serve in the French Military. Its primary role is combat and recruitment of foreign nationals occurs even during peacetime.

The Thing

In November 2021, the Légion étrangère came to the village of Saint-Jean-Du-Gard in the Cévennes² to hold a naturalisation ceremony for 25 of their soldiers from the Nîmes bâtiment. The soldiers finally being accepted as decent enough French citizens were from varied homelands — Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Iran, Lebanon, Mexico, Thailand, amongst others. The Iranian soldier cried when she was given her long coveted papers — she had served her five years before being allowed to ask for nationality, served another two while waiting for approval. She will continue serving, options for new lines of work remaining minimal despite her new passport.

1. ↩ A cultural region and mountain range in the south of France. The area is a recognised UNESCO World Heritage site.

The légionnaires are the first of the army to be sent into war zones to die — if one is willing to die for loose ideas of democracy, if one serves well and loyally, then maybe La France will liberate you from the hell of your post colonial country. This is the vague promise and supposed benefit of joining the Légion étrangère as a foreigner — even then, it isn't guaranteed that the French government will recognise one's sacrifice for a country that only wants them as cannon fodder.

No assistance is given to these foreigners for finding their way to France for recruitment; some young men and women will die in their efforts to even be considered, making their way over armed borders, over choppy waves in dinky toy boats. If they make it here and are successfully recruited into minimum wage military servitude, they are obligated to change their hard to pronounce names to French ones and rot in their uniforms. Some of these people are as young as 17 — the Légion accepts foreigners this young with the caveat that they need written permission from their parents. The Légion swears to the parents that they will not only train their children to be a soldier, but a good citizen too.

The secretary-general of the department was there at the naturalisation ceremony to pass on a formal congratulation to the newly made French. He closed his speech with devenir français n'est une simple formalité; c'est une démarche au sens profond — c'est un honneur avec des droits et des devoirs.³ At the end of all the pomp and circumstance, the children of the village were brought out to sing La Marseillaise⁴ and La Madelon.⁵

1. ↩ "Becoming a French citizen is not just a formality; it is a deeply meaningful process — an honour that comes with rights and responsibilities."
2. ↩ The French national anthem.
3. ↩ Popular World War I song amongst soldiers about a waitress who's in love with the whole regiment she's serving.

*

I’d been living in a hamlet five kilometres away from Saint-Jean-Du-Gard for the past year and a half, homesteading with my first husband.  There had been whispers for the past month or so about the Légion looking into buying a farm down the hill from us; the current owners had listed their property three years prior but had had no success in selling due to an outrageously high price point (550,000€).  

I couldn't entirely blame them for trying to make their final years as pleasant and as lux as possible; farmers aren't exactly valued for their labour here, despite the fact that they not only feed the people but are to thank for France being the sixth highest exporter of produce globally. Farmers work constantly in this country and gain little profit, making it near impossible to put even some money aside. When their backs finally break under the pressure of manual labour, they are given one of the most insulting pensions of any métier, all the worst if they happen to be women, spouses, mothers. 550,000€, however, did seem quite steep; how much money does one really need for the last 10-20 years of life?

The general public consensus was that the price should’ve been lowered to make it more accessible to young farmers or existing farmers wanting to expand their production.  We collectively hate our neighbours for their lack of conviction.

Saint-Jean-Du-Gard's local economy ran on small-scale farming productions, goat cheese, honey, market sale veggies, and the thousands of tourists who came to embark on the famous Chemin de Stevenson⁶ during the hot southern months. There was no place for the army here.

1. ↩ The Stevenson Trail is a long distance hiking route through the Cévennes retracing the 1878 journey of Robert Louis Stevenson as described in his travelogue "Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes."

We had brushed it off as a rumour until the surprise ceremony in November — Nîmes was over an hour away and none of the soldiers being naturalised lived anywhere near our rural village of 2500 people.  We reckoned the only reason the Légion came to Saint-Jean-Du-Gard at all was to quietly introduce us to their soon to be constant presence.

*

The SAFER⁷ is meant to interpose themselves when arable land is being sold for non farming purposes, with priority given to young agriculturalists, particularly ones who benefit from the DJA⁸. Since its inception in 1960, the SAFER has had not only the right but the social obligation to contest the high prices of farmland.

1. ↩ The SAFER (Société d'aménagement foncier et d'établissement rural) is a non-profit government agency created to regulate the rural land market. It holds the right of pre-emption, meaning it has the first refusal on most rural properties.
2. ↩ Dotation Jeunes Agriculteurs (Young Farmer Grant) is a financial aid device supporting the installation or takeover of agricultural projects by anyone under the age of 40 with a recognised agricultural qualification who can present a viable business plan.

In December, a local farmer had the right idea of going directly to the SAFER to ask them to intervene in the sale, to enforce the divine right agriculturalists have to agricultural land, so that he could expand the production of his existing goat farm.  The goat farmer won in his appeal to the SAFER committee, but was given only nine days to come up with a complete project and budget.  No easy feat when also maintaining the production he already had going on — he was doomed to fail.  Since he didn’t make the deadline, the Légion were back in the lead for the land, prepared to pay the 550,000€ asking price.  

In their own proposal to the SAFER, they said little to nothing about making use of the agricultural land surrounding the buildings of the property, proposing only to “offer activities linked to the agricultural management of the site,” in order to help its members recover from physical and psychological injuries.  The proposal assured  the SAFER that there would never be more than 40 soldiers on the property at any given time.   In the not so fine print, however, there were mentions of infantry combat training on the nature trails criss crossing the landscape.  The general consensus amongst us the inhabitants was that this was all very bad for business, bad for morale.  

My first husband prepared to present himself as another interested buyer to the SAFER, being a young agriculturalist himself, and such a go-getter too.  We held ideals of a self sufficient life, desires to make enough to live off of our tender love of the land.  He dreamt of making wine, a necessarily long term project, I had continued fantasies of expanding our personal vegetable production and to start keeping goats.  In our romantic naivety, we truly believed that we had a shot.

*

One of the colonels of the légionnaires' bâtiment in Nîmes was interviewed by the local paper in February 2022, two months after the goat farmer's bid for the land. He made lofty claims that tourism will increase thanks to the presence of the Légion, that his men and their families will bring in the tourism, a rustic playground for army brats. He underplayed the severity of the expected combat training, said that yes, of course we will hear some gunfire, but don't worry, they're just blanks. He let slip that the Légion had been buying up other agricultural sites all around, privately, discreetly, but always legally, claiming that of course they will lease some of the land to an interested farmer, that of course he cares about the stability of agricultural life in the Cévennes. The previously promised number of 40 soldiers on rest stay increased to "120-150 at any given time," with no mention of resting.

This unexpected interview stirred our sleepy lives, incited panic for the future of our local economy and the all over vibe of the place.  We didn’t want that kind of tourism; we wanted the German hikers, off the grid hippies, and starry eyed well meaning city folk in our markets and on the Stevenson trail.  The people we liked coming by to visit our humble postal code would never come back.  We preferred bashful families losing themselves on our properties rather than the légionnaires defiantly marching with intention onto them.  

Not long after we had all read the paper, I biked into the village for groceries.  When I arrived, I saw around 600 légionnaires marching with their big guns all throughout the town — approximately one soldier per four inhabitants.

*

At Le Lézarde, the anarchist bookstore in the centre of the village, we formed our collective, "Vallées Cévenoles Démilitarisées"⁹. We planned our first protest, wrote our little petition, which would ultimately be signed by almost every inhabitant of the village and surrounding areas. Funnily enough, a counter petition was made at around the same time in support of the Légion, claiming that our collective is discriminating against those who risk their lives fighting for democracy. It garnered around 450 signatures. The majority of our members agreed that we should avoid violent conflict so already I knew the whole affair was doomed.

1. ↩ Demilitarized valleys of the Cévennes.

During our next meeting, some members of our movement decided to speak to the inhabitants near the légionnaire camp in Tournemire at the foot of le Larzac¹⁰. The Légion had made their base in le Larzac in 2016, 6 years earlier. Le Larzac was known as a symbol of antimilitarisation¹¹ in the 70s and many of the same grizzled activists of the time had fought once again in 2015/2016. We learned from these elders that the SAFER did not inform the community of the légionnaires' purchase, despite being obligated to do so. The townsfolk only realised what trouble they were in once the Légion started non stop combat training outside of their newly acquired property, spilling over into the commune. We learned also that between 2016 and 2020, the State had spent 116 million euros to improve the infrastructure of the Larzac base.

1. ↩ A vast limestone karst plateau in the south of France. A recognised UNESCO World Heritage site.
2. ↩ Lutte du Larzac (the Fight for Larzac) was a decade long non violent major civil disobedience movement between 1971 and 1981 that successfully blocked the French government's plan to expand a military camp on the Larzac plateau.

With our vocality, we became well known to the légionnaires as their insufferable soon to be neighbours. Some of our guys terrorised the farmer who still lived there, relentlessly tagging the old stone terraces surrounding the property, "LEGiON NON!", "GARDARAM LES CEVENAS!", "LA TERRE AUX PAYSANS!"¹² We tried our damndest to get in touch with some of the big newspapers but the only publication that wanted anything to do with us was Objectif Gard, the newspaper of the department, and it was only thanks to one particularly militant journalist stuck working for a paper that is beneath him. We spread word of our grassroots protest set for the beginning of May, planned our confrontation with the SAFER for not so long after, all in the urgent effort to try and stop the sale scheduled for the end of the month from going through.

1. ↩ "No to the Legion! Let's protect the Cévennes! Land to the farmers!"

*

In the days leading up to the protest, we learned that the gunfire would be more frequent than we had originally been led to believe, and that the Légion had decided they weren't willing to lease space for perennials¹³ — that meant no long term production could happen on this land. The only agricultural work they spoke of permitting was to allow cattle farmers to let their goats and sheep graze on the land, free lawn maintenance for the Légion étrangère. Most importantly, we learned that the path through our properties would likely be cut off for the privacy of our boys in green. This meant that the new camp would cut straight through the Stevenson trail, which brought in around 8 million euros per year to the local economy.

1. ↩ Plants that live longer than two years; for example, roses, asparagus, and grape vines.

300 people arrived to the march — not a bad turnout for such a small town. Members of MODEF and APCA¹⁴ shared our concern and bewilderment, openly stating that this is dispossession of land intended for farmers in favour of society undergoing remilitarisation. Our main speakers tried to maintain faith in the SAFER, as if they just didn't understand that this all goes against their entire mission of 60+ years, as if we just needed to explain things to them more clearly. One of our leaders announced at the protest that none of us would allow the Légionnaires to use the foot paths that lead to our own respective properties — this is quoted verbatim by the one journalist who cares.

1. ↩ MODEF (Mouvement de défense des exploitants familiale) is a French agricultural trade union that advocates for small and medium sized family farms. APCA (Assemblée permanente des Chambres d'agriculture) is the national umbrella organization for the French agricultural chambers.

A day or two later, once the article was released, the Légion issued a statement to say that there will be no more statements on their part. The mayor made his own statement, only to say that he wouldn't be involving himself, that he has no grievances with the soldiers or their friendly firing, that they are "honest and constructive people," that he was surprised by our hostility towards the hoarding of agricultural land. A week later, the Légion made a new brochure explaining their project which described "an operational preparation facility dedicated to amphibious combat and combat hardening," a far cry from the original claims of a rest home. One of my co-workers at the restaurant I was working at for the summer season told me they had heard whispers of this exact style of military takeover happening all over the country.

One day, while hitchhiking back home from the village, one of the légionnaires pulled over in his big personnel vehicle.  He couldn’t have been more than 18 years old and looked to be southeast asian.  He asked me in clumsy halting French where it was that I was going; he realised who I was when I told him and stammered, apologising profusely because he had been told not to interact with me, my first husband, or our landlords.  He sped off up the hill and left me to wait for the next car in the relentless southern heat.

*

Around one week before the sale was set to go through, our earnest collective went directly to the SAFER office in Nîmes.  We blocked the doors, preventing the employees from entering or leaving the building, making insistent demands that the chairman of the SAFER actually take the time to consult with us, the ones who would be most affected by this sale.  A donkey farmer who had joined our initiative told us that he himself had tried to acquire the land three years prior, shortly after the sale had been entrusted to the SAFER.  He revealed that the SAFER had assessed the land at 410,000€ and then did nothing to stop the landowners from raising it to 550,000€.  Even then, he said, 410,000€ seemed to be an outrageous price.  

After kicking up enough fuss and after preventing enough employees from entering their workplace, the chairman finally came out to speak to us. He pleaded with us above all of our noise, promising that the SAFER was doing their due diligence, that they were looking at the applications of five farmers who had shown interest in cultivating part of the property. We demanded to know what type of projects were being considered and he mumbled something about the Légion having final say and final say dictates grazing grounds — nothing with any sense of permanence. In some desperate attempt to calm our outrage, the chairman claims that he protested at le Larzac before, that he would fight again if need be.

Suffice to say, we had our doubts, agreeing that the one person/organisation who could do anything at all lacked the conviction needed to stand up straight, that there was no spine to speak of. 

Each new piece of information we could puzzle together gave further credence to the theory that there was something darker and more insidious afoot. I was/am of the opinion that there was/is the intention to militarise communities known for leaning more to the left, as well as there being a concerted national effort to kill the small producer in favour of industrial farming.

*

The sale went through on the conditions that there will be no firing of weapons, no noise pollution, and no marching through the trails. In light of the loss, some of us gathered to protest outside of the Mas de l'Agriculteurs¹⁵ and the rest of us disrupted meetings in Alès. The Légion sent us a letter while we did our due diligence, accusing us of needless criticism and an unwillingness to negotiate despite our countless proposals for the leasing of the land. One part of the letter stated: "any manoeuvre in open terrain must, by regulation, be the subject of a manoeuvre notice issued well in advance, all the more so when training ammunition is used," as well as, "prohibiting any use of ammunition on the site in question would have unacceptable consequences for the local hunting clubs with which the armed forces will need to collaborate to help manage game populations." This unambiguously confirmed that the conditions of the sale would not be kept, that combat training would be happening whether we liked it or not. They closed off the letter with the encouragement that we receive them warmly as our neighbours.

1. ↩ A retail space in Nîmes for approximately 3000 local producers in the department, dedicated to short supply chains and local agriculture.

They settled in quickly and within days started to enter our property, claiming that it wasn’t clear what was ours and what was theirs.  They came in marching and yelling around our house, vaguely threatening my big tabby cat and asking incessantly if I was often alone on the property (I was).  One of the colonels that would lead his men to our front yard was a big guy with a gnarly scar across his face to go with the menacing smile that split his face in two and that never reached his eyes.  I started to find signs of their own on our forested paths when out foraging, crudely fashioned private property signs on land that definitely wasn’t theirs.  I started to hear the sound of gun shots around my home, too close for comfort.  One afternoon, a low flying military jet swooped in over my head while I sat smoking in front of my house.  

My family came to visit at the end of the summer — my first husband and I decided to play with fire and take them through part of the Stevenson trail, knowing of course that we would be passing through the légionnaires’ property.  My parents and sister were dazzled by the French rurality, so different from the big North American city we all came from.  We walked confidently through our good neighbours’ backyard, armed only with the knowledge that they had no right to block us from the shared trails.  We almost made it to the other side before all of the head honchos came out with their guns drawn and pointed, the scarface colonel’s finger twitching against the trigger.  After some tense exchange, we were allowed to continue on our way on the condition that we don’t make the same mistake again.

*

September comes; we were embittered, no one really doing much of anything to protest the new order.  We halfheartedly organised a meeting at Le Lézarde to see if we could reinspire our once passionate movement — only nine people total were in attendance.  Morale reached an all time low with the arrival of a private company, whose job it was to tear down the banners we hung on the footpaths of our own properties, invaders and trespassers, and to cover graffiti, every anti Légion slogan that we made disappearing within a day of us tagging the walls.  Barbed wire now surrounds the bâtiment, private property signs with the outlines of guns plastered throughout.

We’re told an agriculturalist will be chosen by the end of the month for five coveted hectares that the Légion was willing to offer.  In light of this information, a meeting was held at townhall, us the people versus the légionnaires.  Some members of our collective held a mini protest 15 minutes before we all took our seats, hanging banners and signs outside.  Both sides went in ready and willing to fight, ready and willing to commence our dialogue of the deaf.  

Inside, the first three rows in front of the stage were taken up by the few supporters of the Légion, the rest of the seats taken up by those of us who remained against them. A few reporters, photographers, and various goons stood on the sides of the space. The two colonels took the stage and before they had a chance to present themselves, the hecklers began, hurling out well meaning slogans, "on veut du boudin et des pantoufles! Pas des bottes et du sang! La mort est votre métier!"¹⁶ and so on.

1. ↩ "We want blood sausage and slippers! No boots and blood! Death is your business!"

The colonel with the gnarly scar told us that if we wanted to carry on like this we'd be the ones leaving.  This of course only stirred the pot more, inciting cries of “you’ve already forced your way in,” along with anti militarisation chants, fuck the fatherland, fuck the gendarmes, fuck the cops, fuck the SAFER, and what have you.  Our friend with the gnarly scar looked ready to open fire on us all, dreamy in his fantasies of a bloodbath, while the more placid colonel of the two looked down grimly, saying “in any case, I’d like to thank you, for the few soldiers under my command who died for our country.”  We laughed, our limited opposition turned back to glare and tut at us. 

The crowd calmed and the good cop colonel started to explain the plan for the farm, before one of our own set off the fire alarm to interrupt him.  After five minutes of blaring sound, the alarm was cut and the colonel started again, telling us not to worry about our local economy, that they’re here to help us maintain it, that they’re just regular guys that we have no need to be afraid of.  Our rabble rouser set off the fire alarm once again; during the screeching five minute enforced pause he was escorted out and the alarm was cut once again.  

The good cop colonel continued, confirming that yes, there are five farmers being considered for the arable land on the property, confirming that no, there will be no perennials.  When we started to yell again he sternly admonished us, telling us that the purpose of the farm was never meant to be agricultural and that property owners must be able to have the liberty to decide what happens on their land.  He scolded us for being afraid of crossing them on the footpaths, telling us that the inhabitants of Nîmes, of Paris, aren’t afraid of them, so we shouldn’t be either.  

He finished his speech with the insistence that we had no right whatsoever to be afraid of their gunfire when we have so many hunters in the area.  Our official opposition in the first three rows loudly agreed.  Emboldened by the cheers of the few, the good cop colonel slid back into his even tempered tone and invited us all to a camping trip at the bâtiment so we could break bread with them, telling us to bring our wives and our children.

*

A week or so after the fiasco at townhall, my first husband and I went to a vide grenier¹⁷ in a village two hours away. While we meandered, a man stopped us, telling us that it was nice to see us again. My first husband politely asked him for a reminder on where we had met. The man told us that he should've been clearer, that he knew us but we didn't know him. He said he had been present at the townhall meeting, that he knew my first husband had been interested in cultivating the land for perennials. He flashed a badge — I didn't get a good look at it, but I think it was DGSI¹⁸. He told us the Légion étrangère was willing to negotiate with us, that they were willing to make concessions for perennials if we would just shut up and cool it. He passed my first husband a card and went on his way.

1. ↩ A community garage sale.
2. ↩ Direction générale de la Sécurité intérieure, France's primary internal intelligence agency.

We stopped at the grocery store on our way home and the scarface colonel came to stand in line behind us.  He tapped my first husband on the shoulder to start a civil conversation, his empty smile a hell of a lot eerier when he was standing so close.  I refused to respond but my first husband smiled and played ball, no doubt thinking about the conversation we had with the cryptic maybe-agent earlier that day.

By the end of the year, one hectare of arable land to be used for growing perennial vines was given to my first husband, who finally had very little conviction in the whole affair. The remaining four were dedicated to being used as grazing land. I left the Cévennes, alone, relocating to another part of France. I know very little about what life is like over there now — I still find myself questioning what this was all for, what massive thing I found myself caught up in, what it all meant. As far as I can tell, we lost the battle and we lost the war too. The most disheartening lesson was, of course, that even activists have a price for their silence and compliance.

Written by emma s. nicolay

Photo credit to Midi Libre