France is no stranger to political drama, but the turbulence gripping Paris since 2022 is now sending shockwaves far beyond the country’s borders—most notably, all the way to the South Pacific. As French Prime Minister Sebastien Lecornu narrowly survived two no-confidence votes on October 16, 2025—one by a razor-thin margin of just 18 votes—the consequences of France’s domestic instability are reverberating in its overseas territories, particularly in New Caledonia, where the future remains uncertain and the stakes couldn’t be higher.
This latest chapter in French politics began in earnest after President Emmanuel Macron’s re-election in the spring of 2022. According to the Observer Research Foundation, Macron’s second term was expected to usher in stability after years of upheaval from the pandemic and the war in Ukraine. But the mood of the French electorate had shifted. The far-right National Rally (RN), led by Marine Le Pen, captured 45 percent of the vote in the presidential runoff, and for the first time in a generation, no party or coalition emerged with an absolute majority in the National Assembly. The result was a fragmented parliament, and Macron’s ability to govern was severely constrained from the outset.
The legislative deadlock only deepened. In an attempt to break the impasse, Macron called for early legislative elections in the summer of 2024, following his party’s defeat in the European elections. But the gambit backfired: the elections produced an even more fractured parliament, and France was left without a stable majority or a lasting prime minister. The Fifth Republic’s hybrid system, where the president serves as an “arbitrator” and the prime minister is responsible for policy, was suddenly put to the test. With the prime minister struggling to form a government, Macron shifted his focus to foreign affairs, attending summits and visiting countries across the Indo-Pacific, from Vanuatu to Mongolia, as Observer Research Foundation reported.
But while the president was projecting French influence abroad, the domestic scene grew only more volatile. Former Prime Minister Francois Bayrou resigned in September 2025 after losing a no-confidence vote, and Lecornu’s initial attempt to form a cabinet ended in chaos, with his government collapsing within hours. Six days later, he was re-appointed, but the damage was done. The government’s vulnerability was on full display, and the ripple effects soon reached France’s overseas territories.
Nowhere has this instability been felt more acutely than in New Caledonia, a French territory in the South Pacific whose political future has been the subject of fierce debate for decades. The territory has held three independence referendums between 2018 and 2021, all of which failed. Yet, as The Conversation explains, the results were far from clear-cut: the Indigenous Kanak population, which makes up a significant minority, saw its support for independence grow to 47 percent by the second vote. The third referendum, held in 2021, was especially contentious—Kanak voters boycotted the process after then-overseas territories minister Lecornu refused to postpone the vote during the COVID-19 pandemic. Independence leaders have not forgotten this. In September 2025, the Kanak and Socialist National Liberation Front (FLNKS) publicly criticized Lecornu’s appointment as prime minister, blaming him for “initiating hostilities leading to the current chaos” in New Caledonia.
The legacy of these referendums has left New Caledonia in a political stalemate. Pro-France loyalists have called for changes to voting eligibility in local elections—a move that would dilute the Indigenous vote. Despite opposition from Kanak leaders, President Macron imposed the change unilaterally, sparking violent protests throughout 2024. The scars of that violence—burned-out businesses, schools, and homes—still mar the landscape, serving as a stark reminder of the territory’s fragility.
Efforts to break the deadlock led to the negotiation of the Bougival Accord in July 2025 by Manuel Valls, a former French prime minister with deep ties to New Caledonia. The accord proposed a new “state” for New Caledonia within France, granting it devolved powers—especially in foreign affairs—and setting a path toward full sovereignty under strict conditions. Local elections, originally scheduled for November 2025, would be postponed, and the accord would be put to a referendum in February 2026. But both steps required French legislation, and with the government in Paris in turmoil, the legislative timetable slipped. To complicate matters further, Valls was replaced by a new overseas territories minister unfamiliar with the nuances of New Caledonia.
Back in the territory, the Bougival Accord has come under increasing strain. All the FLNKS leaders who signed the deal in Paris in July have since withdrawn their signatures. FLNKS leader Emmanuel Tjibaou insists that local elections must go ahead in November to provide a legitimate democratic foundation for future negotiations, warning that postponing them would only deepen mistrust. FLNKS President Christian Tein has called the accord a test of respect for the Kanak voice and a measure of whether the peace achieved after decades of conflict can be consolidated or fractured. “The embers are not yet extinguished,” he has said, referring to the violence of the previous year.
Moderate independence parties in New Caledonia still support the accord, but opposition is mounting. The main Kanak union, the Kanak Protestant church, and the Customary Senate representing Kanak chiefs have all voiced their disapproval. Even pro-France leaders now acknowledge that the accord cannot succeed without the participation of FLNKS. The territory’s future hangs in the balance, with many fearing that the situation could spiral back into violence if a political solution is not found.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Pacific is watching closely. At the Melanesian Spearhead Group summit in June 2025, regional leaders reaffirmed their support for New Caledonia’s pro-independence movement and urged President Macron to engage in genuine dialogue on decolonisation. The Pacific Islands Forum, too, has issued unusually pointed statements, recalling France’s controversial nuclear testing in French Polynesia and its fraught relationship with New Caledonia in the late 20th century. Their message to Paris was clear: all stakeholders, especially the FLNKS, must be included in any future talks.
Back in Paris, the political drama shows no sign of abating. Macron’s government faces the daunting task of passing a budget before the end of the year to avoid a financial crisis. With no stable majority in parliament and the specter of further no-confidence votes looming, the president is under pressure to find new ways to govern—perhaps by forging coalitions, as other parliamentary democracies have done, or by taking inspiration from the likes of Berlin or New Delhi. For now, though, the uncertainty persists, and both France and its overseas territories remain caught in a state of limbo.
As France’s political crisis deepens, its reverberations are being felt thousands of miles away in the South Pacific—reminding the world that, in today’s interconnected age, the fate of a government in Paris can shape the lives of people on distant shores.
