Tractors Siege Paris: Macron Accused of Betraying French Farmers

Paul Riverbank, 1/9/2026Farmers across Europe, from Paris to Greece, protest against the EU-Mercosur trade deal that threatens their livelihoods. With banners declaring resistance, they push back against perceived governmental betrayals. As tensions rise between urban and rural populations, the future of European agriculture hangs in the balance.

The French capital is used to noisy unrest, but this felt different. Tractors arrived in every way imaginable—rolling in from surrounding farmlands, some loaded onto train cars, a few even brought over by ferry from Corsica. Ludovic Dupeux, fed up with feeling forgotten, made the long journey himself and didn't mince words: "We want President Macron to stand by the side of farmers." The mood was impatient, defiant—directed not just at Parisian authorities but at the elusive negotiations taking place in Brussels.

Police, calling the demonstration illegal, erected barricades. In some places, officers threatened to seize tractors and detain those behind the wheel. Still, the line of farm vehicles inched forward, refusing to retreat. Near the Eiffel Tower, protesters set up a makeshift camp, banners snapping in the wind and camp stoves sending up thin wisps of smoke that mingled uneasily with exhaust.

The unrest wasn't confined to France. In Germany, scenes on the A4 and A9 highways mirrored those around Paris—convoys of farm machinery turning asphalt into parking lots as frustrated drivers abandoned cars to march among the demonstrators. Dresden’s central square filled with exasperated shouts, some not much different from what you’d hear on a country road two hundred miles away. Meanwhile, Greece saw its own standstill: farmers erected roadblocks for two full days, plugging up routes vital for trade and daily life. Police looked on, sometimes trying to divert traffic, but more often simply weathering the storm. The Greek government dangled offers of new tax breaks and cheaper fuel—concessions met with skepticism by farmers who’d lost patience long before.

"If this agreement goes through, Greek agriculture is finished," said Vangelis Roubis, speaking above the noise of idling tractors. He wasn’t alone—many expressed similar fears. "Here, farming is already hard enough. We pay three times what they do in Latin America just to get crops out of the ground. Potatoes here need forty cents a kilo for us to break even. Brazil can sell at a quarter of that." He shook his head, the calculation leaving little room for hope.

At the center of all this upheaval is the proposed trade deal between the European Union and the Mercosur bloc—a partnership likely to open European markets further to agricultural exports from Brazil, Argentina, and their neighbors. Rural communities across Europe read the fine print warily, convinced that cheap imports could devastate their small-scale farming traditions while lining the pockets of larger exporters. While the French government—through Agriculture Minister Annie Genevard—has announced its intention to reject the agreement, warning it could sabotage local beef, poultry, honey, and sugar sectors, much of the EU remains in favor. In Brussels, France appears increasingly isolated.

Here, resentment turns political. Several leaders of the hardline Coordination Rurale, one of France’s most vocal right-wing farm unions, were detained during the protests. "Frexit Now" banners waved alongside the tricolor, reflecting a potent blend of grievance and nationalism. Among the more moderate voices, the frustration is no less real—years of rising costs, relentless paperwork, livestock diseases, and delayed government help have left even lifelong farmers doubting their future.

All of this combusts at a moment of growing division between urban and rural Europe. In Greek villages, the sense of having reached a breaking point is palpable. "We’ll stay as long as it takes," one cabbage farmer said, busy stacking crates to block the exit of a highway service area. Across the Channel and through the valleys of France, that same stubborn determination echoes. For now, Europe’s tractors wait, engines now and then sputtering to life—an uneasy question mark hovering over the continent’s future.

Blue pinpoints swept across the frigid streets of Paris—headlights on bulky tractors, exhaust sparkling in the winter night. On the tight avenues near the Arc de Triomphe, hundreds of farmers traded the hum of fields for the rumble of engines, their vehicles squeezed between crowds and stone buildings that have seen centuries of protest. Their banners, hand-painted and noticeably worn, declared bluntly: "We will not die in silence."The French capital is used to noisy unrest, but this felt different. Tractors arrived in every way imaginable—rolling in from surrounding farmlands, some loaded onto train cars, a few even brought over by ferry from Corsica. Ludovic Dupeux, fed up with feeling forgotten, made the long journey himself and didn't mince words: "We want President Macron to stand by the side of farmers." The mood was impatient, defiant—directed not just at Parisian authorities but at the elusive negotiations taking place in Brussels.Police, calling the demonstration illegal, erected barricades. In some places, officers threatened to seize tractors and detain those behind the wheel. Still, the line of farm vehicles inched forward, refusing to retreat. Near the Eiffel Tower, protesters set up a makeshift camp, banners snapping in the wind and camp stoves sending up thin wisps of smoke that mingled uneasily with exhaust.The unrest wasn't confined to France. In Germany, scenes on the A4 and A9 highways mirrored those around Paris—convoys of farm machinery turning asphalt into parking lots as frustrated drivers abandoned cars to march among the demonstrators. Dresden’s central square filled with exasperated shouts, some not much different from what you’d hear on a country road two hundred miles away. Meanwhile, Greece saw its own standstill: farmers erected roadblocks for two full days, plugging up routes vital for trade and daily life. Police looked on, sometimes trying to divert traffic, but more often simply weathering the storm. The Greek government dangled offers of new tax breaks and cheaper fuel—concessions met with skepticism by farmers who’d lost patience long before."If this agreement goes through, Greek agriculture is finished," said Vangelis Roubis, speaking above the noise of idling tractors. He wasn’t alone—many expressed similar fears. "Here, farming is already hard enough. We pay three times what they do in Latin America just to get crops out of the ground. Potatoes here need forty cents a kilo for us to break even. Brazil can sell at a quarter of that." He shook his head, the calculation leaving little room for hope.At the center of all this upheaval is the proposed trade deal between the European Union and the Mercosur bloc—a partnership likely to open European markets further to agricultural exports from Brazil, Argentina, and their neighbors. Rural communities across Europe read the fine print warily, convinced that cheap imports could devastate their small-scale farming traditions while lining the pockets of larger exporters. While the French government—through Agriculture Minister Annie Genevard—has announced its intention to reject the agreement, warning it could sabotage local beef, poultry, honey, and sugar sectors, much of the EU remains in favor. In Brussels, France appears increasingly isolated.Here, resentment turns political. Several leaders of the hardline Coordination Rurale, one of France’s most vocal right-wing farm unions, were detained during the protests. "Frexit Now" banners waved alongside the tricolor, reflecting a potent blend of grievance and nationalism. Among the more moderate voices, the frustration is no less real—years of rising costs, relentless paperwork, livestock diseases, and delayed government help have left even lifelong farmers doubting their future.All of this combusts at a moment of growing division between urban and rural Europe. In Greek villages, the sense of having reached a breaking point is palpable. "We’ll stay as long as it takes," one cabbage farmer said, busy stacking crates to block the exit of a highway service area. Across the Channel and through the valleys of France, that same stubborn determination echoes. For now, Europe’s tractors wait, engines now and then sputtering to life—an uneasy question mark hovering over the continent’s future.