Berkley Center

In early April, the tombs of several Muslim soldiers who had died defending France during World War I were defaced in the region of Pas-de-Calais in the north of France. President Nicholas Sarkozy quickly met with representatives of the Muslim faith in order to publicly express his condemnation of the act and his solidarity with France’s indignant Muslim community. However, the event stuck in my memory as particularly indicative of Western Islamophobia and led me to wonder about the predominant representations of Islam in the West and the effect of these representations upon relations between Muslims and non-Muslims.

With respect to France, in my last letter I raised the question of marginalization, and whether or not France’s policy to strictly decouple religious expression from the public sphere via laïcité might not result in precisely the opposite effect from the intended one. Perhaps rather than allowing all of France’s citizens, including its immigrant populations, to easily integrate and become equal and undifferentiated citizens of the Republic, laïcité was enabling a more insidious, less easily recognizable form of marginalization to take place. As I set out to pursue this question further, however, I rapidly realized that the answer would not be easily arrived it, particularly because marginalization is, by its very definition, nor readily apparent.

I live in one of the most integrated and diverse arrondissements (neighborhoods or districts), in Paris: an area where traditional French families freely mingle with families from North and Sub-Saharan Africa, Greece, and Turkey. Contrary to my original supposition that overt signs of religiosity might be more apparent amongst France’'s immigrant communities, however, shops, houses, and clothing are as devoid of religious insignia in my arrondissement as they are in the more bourgeois neighborhoods of Paris, where skyrocketing rents have resulted in far less socioeconomic and ethnic diversity amongst the inhabitants. The only veiled Muslim woman whom I ever see on a regular basis in my arrondissement is a beggar, who sits on the steps leading to and from the metro all day, every day, absolutely silent and motionless with her palm outstretched for change. To conclude on the basis of this one example, however, that laïcité serves to marginalize those, particularly Muslims, who overtly profess their religious beliefs seems absurd.

Early on in my stay, I paid a visit to la Grande Mosquée de Paris (the Great Paris Mosque) with some fellow American friends one Saturday morning. Although the restaurant near the mosque was overflowing with customers eager for a brunch of mint tea, traditional Algerian pastries, and couscous, the mosque itself was surprisingly empty. Small knots of veiled women mingled in the sunny courtyard with a half-dozen curious tourists like ourselves. Some weeks later, during my course on the theory and practice of of laïcité, however, I suddenly recalled this visit and thought about it in a new light. The topic of discussion during this particular class was the discontinuity between laïcité as an ideal and laïcité as practiced in France. I had asked the professor how laïcité as an ideal suggested the state treat religious objects, such as churches, that had a clear historical importance in addition to a sacred one. The professor replied that here France had handled its policy in keeping with what would be suggested by the ideal, namely, preserving cemeteries and landmarks such as Notre Dame that had a clear cultural, artistic, or historical value, while doing away with objects such as crucifixes in classrooms that only served a religious function.

Moreover, as part of its laïque policy, the French state is not able to utilize tax money to pay for the construction of any new religious buildings. At this point, I recalled something that I had read concerning la Grande Mosquée. Constructed in the mid-1920s, the French government had made an exception to laïcité in order to honor the many Muslim soldiers who had died fighting on behalf of France during World War I. As such, la Grande Mosquée is the only mosque of its kind in France. Although the logic behind laïcité as expressed by my professor seemed clear, it seemed equally obvious to me that its application resulted in a perhaps unintentional double standard. France’s many medieval churches and cathedrals, where practicing Roman Catholics still attend services today, receive state subsidies for their maintenance and have a prominent role in French society as cultural and historical landmarks. Muslim places of worship, however, simply because they are a more recent fixture of France'’s cultural landscape, must be financed through entirely private means.

A final observation concerning Islam in France is that I have noticed a seemingly widespread ignorance concerning the Islamic faith. Even granted that the French have a higher tolerance for politically incorrect remarks on most subjects than do Americans, some of the comments made by my professors with respect to Islam nevertheless frankly startled me. Sciences Po, my school in Paris, is quite an institution in and of itself. As part of the highly selective system of grandes écoles (big or great schools), it draws upon some of the most highly respected scholars in France to teach its courses. After spending two and a half years in Georgetown’'s highly Islam-conscious academic environment, therefore, I was incredibly taken aback when the professor for my course on laïcité asserted categorically that Islam is a religion that interprets the Qur'an literally.

This statement entirely neglected, in my opinion, to take into account the nuanced and diverse nature of Islam, where, to name just one counter-example, practitioners of Sufism believe in the possibility of a personal relationship with God transmitted through filial ties of initiation. At another point, during a course on political philosophy, my professor paused his discussion of Rawls'’ "veil of ignorance" in order to recount an allegedly amusing anecdote. Apparently he had once asked his students to engage in a thought experiment wherein he had first requested them to imagine themselves behind the veil of ignorance and then to symbolically lift the veil and articulate the rules by which they would want their society to be governed. According to the professor, a veiled Muslim girl in his class refused to participate in the exercise because, according to her religious beliefs, she could not remove her veil, symbolically or otherwise. “She chose to remain in ignorance,” the professor concluded with a wry chuckle, seemingly unaware of the potentially offensive connotations of this statement.

After each incident, I wanted to consult Muslim students at Sciences Po in order to find out if these sorts of arguably thoughtless comments were a regular occurrence. This, however, presented another problem, which is perhaps indicative of the degree of marginalization within French society in and of itself: I do not know any Muslim students at Sciences Po (although, to be fair, I can hardly claim to be acquainted with a very large percentage of the student body). However, I couldn’'t help but wonder whether or not an atmosphere more conducive to interreligious dialogue rather than a laïque relegation of religion to the private sphere outside of school might not have also created an atmosphere wherein such remarks would be less socially acceptable.