France’s latest political drama has arrived not with a bang, but with a sigh, the weary, disillusioned sigh of a government that has run out of imagination and goodwill. Prime Minister Sébastien Lecornu’s resignation, delivered with a pointed jab at the “egos” tearing apart the political landscape, encapsulates a truth that Emmanuel Macron seems unwilling to face: France is no longer governed by vision but by vanity.
Lecornu’s departure came just after Macron unveiled a new cabinet that, despite weeks of speculation and whispers of change, was largely the same old ensemble. A reshuffle without renewal, a performance of continuity dressed up as reform. It was an act that fooled no one, least of all Lecornu himself, who decided he had no interest in being the loyal face of a stagnant regime. In stepping down, he did not just leave his office; he left behind the illusion that Macron’s government could reinvent itself.
Macron now finds himself stranded in the middle of a political desert of his own making. His centrist experiment, once a promise to bridge left and right, has become a tightrope act with no net. The president’s choices are stark, each one carrying a whiff of political suicide. He can attempt to find another prime minister, an increasingly impossible task given that few want to be the next scapegoat for his political exhaustion. He can try to collaborate with the socialists, forming a fragile government that would likely crumble under ideological tension. Or he can gamble it all and call new elections, opening the door to Marine Le Pen and her far-right movement, which now looms like a specter over the Republic.
It’s a cruel irony for Macron, who rose to power as the antidote to France’s extremes. Today, his presidency risks being the very reason the far right triumphs. His brand of technocratic centrism, sleek, efficient, and aloof, once sold as the future, now feels like a relic of an era when political moderation still inspired hope. That era is gone. The French public, battered by inflation, distrust, and a sense of cultural drift, no longer believes in the pragmatic dream Macron preached. They crave conviction, not calculation.
Lecornu’s critique of “political egos” hits harder than it seems. In France, politics has always been personal, but never so performative. From the presidential palace to the opposition benches, everyone appears more interested in posturing than governing. Macron, for all his intellect, has become the perfect symbol of this malaise, brilliant, but tone-deaf; ambitious, but increasingly isolated. His rivals are no better. The left remains fragmented between idealists and pragmatists, while the right has mutated into something darker and more dangerous. Le Pen’s Rassemblement National, polished and patient, stands ready to pounce the moment Macron falters.
And falter he will, because the numbers, the mood, and the momentum are not on his side. A call for new elections might sound democratic in theory, but in practice it would be a high-stakes bet on public discontent. Macron knows that many French voters are no longer voting for change, they are voting out of anger. His party, already weakened, would face an electorate eager to punish, not persuade. A socialist coalition could offer him temporary stability, but at the cost of policy paralysis and endless compromise. France would be governed, but barely.
The real tragedy, however, is not Macron’s personal predicament but the state of the Republic itself. What Lecornu’s resignation exposes is the erosion of collective purpose in French politics. Governments once fell over ideas; now they collapse under the weight of personalities. The political center has hollowed out, leaving a vacuum filled with resentment and populism. France, a nation that prides itself on debate, now drowns in division.
Macron’s insistence on continuity might have been intended as a signal of stability but to many, it feels like denial. The country demanded renewal, and he offered repetition. His reshuffled cabinet, still populated by the same loyal technocrats, looks less like a team and more like a bunker. France needed leadership; it got management. Lecornu’s exit, in this context, feels almost honourable, a refusal to be part of the pretence.
One can almost imagine the scene in the Élysée Palace: a president pacing through gilded halls, weighing impossible choices, haunted by the echo of Lecornu’s parting words. Macron has always thrived on control, but control is slipping. His legacy, once tied to reform and European leadership, now teeters on the edge of becoming a cautionary tale of a leader too clever to connect, too proud to adapt.
And yet, perhaps this moment of crisis could also be a moment of clarity. Macron has one final opportunity to confront the France he governs, not the one he imagines. That means listening to a country that feels ignored, and rediscovering humility in a political system addicted to arrogance. Collaboration with the socialists, though messy, might force him to rediscover a sense of shared purpose. It might show the French that governance can still mean cooperation rather than conflict.
But if he continues to cling to the illusion of dominance, if he insists on ruling through mirrors and loyalists, then his downfall will be swift and deserved. Lecornu’s resignation is not just a political event; it is a warning shot. France is weary of kings who call themselves presidents.
In the end, the “egos” Lecornu condemned are not just those of politicians but of a system that confuses stubbornness with strength. Macron’s France stands at a crossroads: one path leads to a humbled, cooperative democracy; the other to a populist reckoning that could reshape Europe.
The president still holds the pen, but his ink is running dry. If he cannot rewrite his story soon, Marine Le Pen will be more than a threat; she will be the next chapter.
And when that happens, Macron’s empty cabinet reshuffle will be remembered not as a moment of stability, but as the final performance before the curtain fell.
No comments:
Post a Comment