July 23 and the Question of Power

July 23 connects two very different scenes: a courtroom in Paris and barracks in Cairo. In France, the trial of Marshal Philippe Petain, the former head of the Vichy regime, began in 1945. In Egypt, young officers launched a movement in 1952 that brought down the monarchy of King Farouk. Here, a judicial reckoning with collaboration; there, a military coup in the name of national renewal. Both days revolve around the same uncomfortable question: Who is entitled to speak for a country after a crisis?

On July 23, 1945, proceedings against Petain opened before the High Court of Justice in Paris. The defendant was 89 years old, famous as the hero of Verdun from the First World War and, as head of state in Vichy, a symbol of French collaboration with Nazi Germany. It was precisely this contrast that gave the trial its explosive force. In the dock sat not just any official, but a figure whose portrait had once hung in government offices and schools.

France was still living amid the aftershocks of liberation. The occupation had ended less than a year earlier, many families were searching for missing relatives, and grief and anger lay close together. At the same time, the Epuration, the purge of collaborators, threatened to descend into private revenge. The trial therefore had to achieve more than determine a punishment. It was meant to visibly separate the new republican state from Vichy and uphold the judiciary’s monopoly on violence against the fury of the streets.

Petain denied having betrayed France. He portrayed his policy as a shield that had prevented worse outcomes. The prosecution, by contrast, saw attacks on the internal security of the state and collaboration with the enemy. This conflict still extends far beyond Petain himself. Can political responsibility disappear behind coercion, age or alleged reasons of state? The question remains unsettling because it strikes at the heart of every democracy under pressure.

On August 15, 1945, the High Court of Justice found Petain guilty and sentenced him to death as well as national degradation. Charles de Gaulle commuted the execution to life imprisonment because of Petain’s advanced age. The verdict neither erased the crimes of the Vichy regime nor healed society. But it marked a boundary: the Republic declared that decorations, memories or uniforms do not exempt power from accountability. A fairly clear statement, even without a microphone or television studio.

Seven years later, on July 23, 1952, a night began at the other end of the Mediterranean that reordered Egypt’s history. The Free Officers, a circle of younger military men around Mohammed Nagib and Gamal Abdel Nasser, took control of key locations in Cairo. Their target was King Farouk, whose court was considered corrupt and whose monarchy, for many Egyptians, was associated with social inequality, British influence and defeat in the 1948 war.

The coup initially unfolded with remarkable control. Farouk abdicated on July 26 and left the country. The monarchy formally continued for several more months, but its political substance was gone. On June 18, 1953, the new rulers proclaimed the republic. Nasser subsequently rose to become the defining face of the new Egypt: nationalism, promises of social reform, a strong state and the demand for full independence merged into a powerful narrative.

This narrative was by no means solely one of liberation. The Free Officers sidelined parties and political opponents; democratic space remained narrow. This is precisely where the historical contrast with Paris lies. In 1945, France sought to restore the legitimacy of a state through a public trial. In Cairo, an army based its legitimacy on revolution and national salvation. Both paths sought order after a crisis, yet they led to very different political cultures.

France was not merely on the sidelines during Egypt’s transformation. Since the 19th century, the Suez Canal had also borne a strong French imprint, above all through Ferdinand de Lesseps and the canal company. When Nasser nationalized the canal in 1956, France, Great Britain and Israel responded by attacking Egypt. The Suez Crisis brutally demonstrated how profoundly July 23, 1952 had shaken the old colonial balance of power. Paris wanted to preserve influence; Cairo demanded sovereignty. The canal became a bottleneck of world politics.

What connects the old marshal in a Paris courtroom with the young officers in Cairo? Both stories show that national dignity is a dangerously elastic concept. It can prompt a society to demand accountability for crimes. But it can just as easily stifle opposition when a government declares itself the sole voice of the people. History provides no instruction manual, more a compass with a few scratches.

July 23 also continues to resonate in the present. In France, the memory of Vichy remains a benchmark for confronting antisemitism, state complicity and political seduction. In Egypt, the 1952 Revolution remains a central reference point in the state’s self-understanding. And Suez is a reminder that trade routes are never merely lines on a map. Behind them stand power, labor, raw materials and the question of who decides access.

Thus, this calendar day belongs to those dates on which history does not remain a distant backdrop. It appears in court, marches through barracks gates and travels through a canal between two seas. Sometimes it wears a robe, sometimes boots. But its core remains the same: power demands memory – and memory demands judgment.