left.‘We don’t need people like you!’
‘And do you think that I need you?’
‘No, no, no. You and your veil, you can go back home!’
‘But this is my home.’
‘Your home? You’ll never be at home here!’
‘Is that so? What makes you more French than me?’
‘The veil, it’s not French! This is a Republic! Watch out! I’ve warned you!’
Street confrontation, Lille, c.2006–71
__________________
We loved you so much.
Houria Bouteldja, 20051
There were times when I could not stop myself from admiring Jacques Chirac. As president of the French Republic, he seemed to incarnate the dignity of statesmanship in a manner that left his contemporary, Tony Blair, looking amateurish. One of these moments occurred in September 2003. Readers may remember the extraordinary heatwave which swept across Europe during that summer, stifling dozens of old, frail people in many cities. In Paris, as elsewhere, there were tragic cases in which, days after their death, lonely anonymous corpses were found in cheap apartments, under bridges and in wastelands, the last remains of tramps, alcoholics and down-and-outs. Often no one came forward to claim them, despite the best efforts of the Parisian authorities to identify them and to locate relatives. Finally, in September 2003, a decision was taken to bury these wretched, lost victims, with the municipality arranging the procedures. At that moment, Chirac stepped in. He chose to attend these funerals, for even a dead tramp was a citizen of the Republic. Chirac’s presence embodied a type of trans-political solidarity that transcended social, cultural and political divisions. This incident may have been the last occasion on which the values of French Republicanism were successfully presented as embodying ideals of social inclusion.
There were no cameras at the municipal funeral. Unlike Blair, Chirac understood the power of publicity without photographs: his gesture demonstrated a finely crafted political instinct, rooted in a perceptive evaluation of French people’s sensibility, which eloquently asserted a principle without argument or conflict.
I was therefore amazed at some press reports early in December 2003. Chirac visited Tunis, and spoke to some school students. They raised the question of Muslim schoolgirls wearing veils. Chirac’s response was astonishing. He explained to the Tunisian students that they had to understand that there was ‘something aggressive’ about the veil: wearing one to school raised a question of principle. Chirac referred to the Stasi Commission that was considering this question in the context of a larger study of the nature of laïcité (a term to be explored in the next chapter).2 Chirac’s comments on the veil were odd. There seemed to be something almost comic about the idea that the president of France was voicing his concern about aggressive schoolgirls. More seriously, there was also a stark contrast between these values and his previous pronouncements: if an anonymous tramp was recognized as a member of the Republic, shouldn’t this quality also be extended to a veiled Muslim schoolgirl? And yet Chirac, the experienced statesman, chose to express this kind of exclusionary feeling in public, fully aware that his statements would be reported by the world’s press.
Something was changing in France. Chirac’s words presaged a small change in the regulations governing state schools (in effect, in March 2004 veil-wearing schoolgirls were banned) and illustrated a larger change in public attitudes to minorities. The new law provoked comment and debate in France and across the world. Many commentators were critical: people as varied as Jürgen Habermas, the respected German political philosopher, Rowan Williams, the archbishop of Canterbury, Christine Delphy, the French radical feminist philosopher, and Human Rights Watch all criticized the law’s implications.3 A range of anglophone academics also commented on the law. One interesting point to be gained from these rushed, critical responses was the wide range of disciplines represented: from women’s studies (Caitlin Killian), anthropology (John Bowen), journalism (Emmanuel Terray and Jane Kramer – a rare supporter of the law), political science (Parvati Nair) to myself, previously principally a historian.4
As part of the preparation for my article, I gave a number of papers at conferences. An incident at once struck me. My paper had been placed next to a couple of papers on linked topics: the dominant tone of our panel was that we were puzzled by the new law, but certainly critical of it. Afterwards I spoke with a French academic. By mid-2004 I had learnt to be cautious when approaching French people about this topic. However, in this case, the lecturer was polite and welcoming. He’d enjoyed our papers, he said, and had realized that most British academics were critical of the law. Indeed, it did seem a bit ridiculous. Then, quite suddenly, his tone changed; he was staring into the middle distance and grew misty-eyed. ‘But when I get to France’ he said, his voice rising in passion, ‘I remember the Republic and laïcité, I remember that I am French, and then …’ Like Chirac at the tramps’ funeral, he fell silent. Perhaps for him the argument was so obvious, that it did not need to be said.
In the months that followed, I made further trips to France, talking to Muslims and non-Muslims living there, and then discussing my impressions with colleagues and friends in Britain. I became sure that something was changing in France: there was a new tone emerging in academic
