I have elected to explore the idea of “secular space” based on my personal experience as an exchange student in a French high school. For the French, the concept of “laïcité” (secularism) is very important to national identity. In other words, the church and state ought to be separated, and institutions should reinforce that. The U.S. supports similar ideals in its constitution, although Christian values were (and continue to be) perpetuated in American society. However, French laws often take this concept to the extreme, especially in the face of a growing number of immigrants from North Africa, many of whom are Muslim. See: the Upholding Republican Values Law (U.S. Department of State, 2022).
Growing up in a small suburb in Ohio, my personal experience with Islam was very limited, but I was socialized liberally enough to understand that beyond my neck of the woods, the religion occupies a major space in the world. When I arrived in France at 15, I witnessed firsthand the cultural divide between Christian or irreligious French people and who they perceived as an encroaching Muslim population. My host mother talked negatively of immigrants bumming off welfare in nearby public housing complexes (an apt example of spatial segregation), and I watched impassioned French news commentators rail against Nike’s unveiling of a new sports hijab ahead of the 2020 Olympics (Peitier and Breeden, 2019).
I hope I shouldn’t need to explain why grouping together “lazy immigrant” stereotypes and antipathy toward an entire religion is problematic, but in no place was this notion more casually and sinisterly propped up than in public schools. Absolutely no religious symbols were tolerated. Yes, that policy technically included Star of David or cross necklaces (which I always argued as being discreet enough to slip under your shirt), but it primarily targeted the highly visible hijab. In 2004, headscarves were officially banned in schools (Audureau, 2023). I observed peers of mine remove their scarves upon entry to the courtyard at 8 a.m. and then slip them back on at 4 p.m. in the presence of their mothers, who sometimes wore burkas. Though immigration often requires sacrifice for opportunity, I couldn’t help but feel that this compromise of apparel cut deeper than necessary, particularly given France’s colonial roots in the countries that many of these families had moved from.
I think about this policy a lot, and just how dehumanizing it might be for a young immigrant already struggling to adjust to a new environment. The French’s argument for a secular space always seemed more like a nationalistic one, because for every space, there are pre-existing norms. Christian or atheist students might not have to change a single thing about their outfits to fall in line. Newly arrived Muslim students might still see themselves as sticking out for their accent, or responsibility to translate for their parents, and assimilated French Muslims might feel like they are routinely denying a major part of their identity. I also felt troubled by France’s narrow-minded definition of feminism, given that the law mainly targets women. Are women not permitted the right to choose?
Some migrant cultural adjustment policies have been seen in other parts of Europe, with Denmark even going so far as to separate immigrant children from their families for Danish cultural education programs (Barry & Sorensen, 2018). To me, France’s policies, although grounded in equality-based logic, aren’t too far off from those ideas. An educational space should incorporate the diversity of its learners, and pretending that religion doesn’t factor into those differences will only exacerbate those conflicts outside of the classroom.
To incorporate ideas we’ve explored in class, the body is a place that we dress and on which we assert our identity. It is also a vessel that demonstrates belonging in a space. Prohibition against individualistic expression as well as communal expression – which could hypothetically unite religious/cultural minorities and provide strength against a repressive status quo – is quite contradictory to France’s national proclamation of liberté, égalité, and fraternité.
This is a super interesting discussion, particularly considering how intertwined French sociocultural norms are intertwined with Roman Catholicism, which you touch upon when explaining how Christian students are almost untouched by these policies. Furthermore you highlight how this policy primarily targets Women practicing Islam as much of this is targeted towards the practice of veiling oneself. Caroline Fourest, a French journalist takes the stance that burqas and veils are the physical manifestation of gender inequality and the oppression of women in Islam. She stresses that this is not only a violation of laïcité but also France's progress on gender equality. On the other hand, Muslim feminist scholars, such as Lila Abu-Lughod make the argument that the veil is a means of empowerment and "portable seclusion" that gives women the ability to shield themselves from the sexualize gaze of strange men as well as express their religious pride/identity. I personally see merit in both arguments but I take the stance that there is no place for government to enforce limits on personal expression, especially when the roots of laïcité in large come from a desire to create cultural homogenization and decrease the visibility of religious diversity in France. This seems especially hypocritical when you are spending around $767 million to repair a Cathedral representative of an institutional religious system that upheld class, gender, and religious castes/discrimination as well as launched some of the bloodiest genocide campaigns in human history.
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