When I arrive in Lezay, my clothes are soaked with sweat and my head is clouded. In a field outside the town, I see hundreds of supporters of Les Soulèvements de la Terre in a victorious but cautious mood. People carry flags that say: “We are all Les Soulèvements de la Terre.” The police are there, but they keep their distance. A helicopter circles above us.
Lazare emerges from the crowd, half-eaten sandwich in hand and shiny silver shoes. When we finally find a patch of field not covered in sheep droppings, he kneels in the grass and, in his gentle, methodical style, explains why it is time for the climate movement to take more radical action.
Part of Lazare’s job is to soften the image of Les Soulèvements de la Terre. For years she appeared in French magazines as the new face of radical eco-activism, but she became the official spokesperson for Les Soulèvements de la Terre only when the group faced the prospect of being shut down. Now Lazare is one of a small group of people who make speeches at protests or explain their motives to the press. “The government tries to say that Les Soulèvements de la Terre is one of these dangerous ultra-left groups,” she says, twisting blades of grass between her fingers as she speaks. They want the public to imagine violent men, she explains. Lazare knows she doesn’t fit that image. And neither do her supporters, lying on the grass with their bikes behind us. There are children, grey-haired hippies, a contingent of tractors, dogs and even a donkey. A large white horse pulls a cart in circles, a speaker inside vibrating with music.
Later that day, I join about 700 supporters of Les Soulèvements de la Terre cycling along quiet country roads, weaving through sunflower fields, wind turbines and dried-up rivers. Every time we reach a small town, the streets are packed with people, sometimes hundreds, clapping and cheering as we pass. Owners of small farms open their doors and welcome us to refill our water bottles and use the facilities. There’s a DJ on wheels blasting The Prodigy as we head toward the next town. Three months later, in November 2023, that same French high court overturns the government’s decision to ban the group, deeming it disproportionate.
It is a brief respite from the legal onslaught facing the movement, as European authorities formulate their response to the wave of sabotage sweeping the continent. In November, Lazare and a fellow spokesperson for Les Soulèvements de la Terre are due to appear in court for refusing to attend a parliamentary inquiry into the 2023 protests, including the battle of Saint-Soline. They face two years in jail. The same month, Patrick Hart appears in court to decide whether he should lose his medical licence as a result of his activism. Last year in Germany, members of the Letzte Generation were subjected to police raids, and in May 2024, the public prosecutor’s office in the German city of Neuruppin charged five of the group’s members with forming a criminal organization, citing in part the 2022 pipeline protests. Werner, surprisingly, has not been charged, but he hopes a public trial of his fellow activists will trigger a nationwide reckoning with Germany’s fossil fuel use and finally give his pipeline sabotage the impact he always wanted.
As its members are brought to trial, it seems more important than ever that these groups have the support of the public. That is why the people lining small country roads are so important to Lazare. He needs their blessing. “Radicalism must always have the support of a mass of people to succeed,” he tells me. Sabotage needs to inspire imitators, which means it needs to shake off its reputation as a sinister, criminal act.
After a long first day of cycling, we arrive at a campsite. The activists have set up a campsite with a bar, a canteen for a fee, a stage for climate talks and live music. The accordion is playing again, that festive atmosphere. “I think it is important that activists sometimes go out at night, masked, and commit sabotage,” says Lazare. “But at Les Soulèvements de la Terre we want to do it in broad daylight, not anonymously, but collectively, with joy and music.” Joy, he says, is the key to the whole idea.
Tell us what you think about this article. Send a letter to the editor at email@wired.com.
