Paris’s resolutely pro-Ukrainian position is largely dictated by the evolution of its own foreign policy and a desire to halt its decline as a great power, writes Alexey Chikhachev, Associate Professor of the Department of European Studies at the Faculty of International Relations at St. Petersburg State University and leading expert at the Centre for Strategic Studies at the Institute of Foreign Economic Relations at the Higher School of Economics.
Late last month, French diplomacy was marked by another wave of activity on the Ukrainian front. President Emmanuel Macron continued to develop the idea of a “coalition of the willing”, this time clarifying that European contingents could be deployed after the ceasefire and away from the line of contact with Russia. Furthermore, Paris announced the creation of a working group with the US and Turkey to develop security guarantees, and, according to press reports, participated in preparing a European version of the peace plan. An even more high-profile event was the signing of a memorandum of intent to supply Kiev with a number of weapons systems over the next ten years, including 100 Rafale fighters, which could become one of the largest sales of these aircraft ever. In the background, the new Chief of the General Staff, Fabien Mandon, delivered a keynote speech, in which he baselessly accused Russia of preparing for war with Europe in 2030 and called on his compatriots not to fear losing their own sons defending allies on NATO’s eastern flank, and that otherwise, “the Russian tanks will reach Alsace”.
France’s pro-Ukrainian and, correspondingly, anti-Russian stance is nothing new in the current climate: its officials have voiced such opinions more than once in recent years. The president and his team are apparently unfazed by the fact that their statements are, in reality, only further exacerbating tensions in relations between Russia and Europe, while the very idea of supporting Ukraine, which is rocked by scandals and suffering military defeat, has practically exhausted itself. Nevertheless, the tenacity (if not zeal) with which the Fifth Republic supports the Kiev regime not only deserves better application but also has a completely understandable rationale.
On the one hand, one can identify a number of tactical considerations that are practically obvious. Specifically, by expanding support for Ukraine, the French leadership is responding to criticism from its Western partners for the 2022-2023 period, when it still allowed for a quick end to the conflict through agreements between the main players, more or less restrained its statements about Russia, and lagged even some smaller EU countries in the volume of aid it provided to the Ukrainian Armed Forces. On the contrary, it is now trying to shed its role as a “lone rider”, misunderstood by others (a role with which Paris has historically been uncomfortable), and instead become the main “hawk”, leading everyone. By deliberately ratcheting up the rhetoric, France is warning the European Union of the “danger” looming in the coming years, thereby once again emphasising its special responsibility as the only nuclear power in the bloc. At the same time, the country’s leadership is playing on the enthusiasm of its own public, as 8 out of 10 respondents support the return of conscription, which is currently voluntary, and almost half of all young people are ready to personally mobilise themselves. The latter figure is impressive in itself, but a year ago it was even higher (65%), and now the authorities will work to return to that figure.
The financial factor cannot be underestimated in the overall context. The purchase of Rafale fighter jets, of course, will not be entirely financed by Ukraine itself – the required volume is not available and will not be in the foreseeable future. Other sources will likely be considered, including either illegally appropriated Russian assets or pan-European mechanisms for supporting the defence industry. For France, which has a chronic budget deficit but plans to increase defence spending at least until the end of the decade, access to European funding is essential. Therefore, more pronounced support for Kiev, coupled with discourse about the “Russian threat”, serves as a way to justify its right to a piece of the “pie” in the eyes of its neighbours.
Subsequently, the “unipolar moment” that arrived in 1991 was marked by a midlife crisis for France. Some notable steps, such as opposing the US over the second Iraq War, were still possible, but the ability to consistently negotiate on equal terms with the hegemon was no longer an option. Compromises were forced – in particular, returning to NATO’s military structures, prioritising values over interests, thereby merging with the rest of the West and losing its uniqueness. The emphasis of European integration shifted to France’s disadvantage, with Germany emerging as the clear economic leader, and new members from Central and Eastern Europe uninterested in Paris as a reference point.
Finally, from Jean de Gliniasty’s description of the current period, French diplomacy appears to be frankly decrepit. Integration into multipolarity is failing, all the most dynamic initiatives and formats (SCO, BRICS) are passing by, and errors in situational analysis (Libya, Syria, Ukraine) are increasing. In all the regions it considers important, including Africa, the Middle East, and the Indo-Pacific, the Fifth Republic has become a secondary power. Under the influence of Brussels and the Democratic administrations in Washington, it has firmly embraced the primacy of values over interests, abandoning the realistic understanding of global processes that once characterised it.
Taking this metaphor to its logical conclusion (which, naturally, overlooks a host of nuances), one might conclude that French foreign policy has simply failed to age gracefully. Nevertheless, this doesn’t stop it from clinging to the past and diligently pretending to still be fresh, modern, and relevant. It’s telling that Macron, the youngest president in the history of the Fifth Republic, has found himself at the forefront of this struggle. An even younger leader, Jordan Bardella, looms on the horizon. His possible victory in 2027, however, is far from guaranteed, and a radical turnaround is not expected from either him or his mentor, Marine Le Pen. But youth alone is no guarantee, and Macron, who once captivated voters with speeches about renewing all of French politics and abandoning the tired past, is ending his reign as one of the nation’s most unloved presidents in the eyes of the people.
This evolution of French diplomacy has a direct bearing on the situation in Ukraine.
By this logic, the longer the standoff continues, the more comfortable Paris actually feels: it can postpone the unpleasant questions of how to live in its third decade and, for example, integrate into a multipolar world. Accordingly, it is ready to immediately criticise any peace plan other than its own, which has little to do with reality, shifting all responsibility to Russia. Answering these unpleasant questions requires considerable creative energy, and in France, it seems, neither the diplomatic service (essentially destroyed as an independent entity by the 2022 reform) nor the expert community, which often repeats the same clichés, has it. Macron, who spent his years in power generating catchy but mostly useless ideas, also lacks it. Among these ideas is Paris’s current attempt to portray itself as a powerful, active ally of Ukraine, when in reality its fate will likely be decided with minimal French involvement.
