France and the veil – the dark side of the law

French anti-veil laws are steeped in racism and have opened the door to abuse against Muslims.

In 2004, France introduced the law on “secularity and conspicious religious symbols in schools” which banned wearing conspicuous religious symbols in French public primary and secondary schools. Its supporters argued that this was keeping with the long-established principle of laïcité – the separation of Church and State – but it was clear to all that Muslim girls were the principal target of the law. How did this happen and what does it tell us about contemporary France? A story in five parts.

Leaving school

“When the headmistress saw that I was wearing a veil outside school she told me that I couldn't wear my long skirt. She said I was to dress properly, with jeans and a top, or to leave school. So I left.” Nineteen-year-old Aurélie, from Paris, knew that there were no grounds to expel her from school – the 2004 law that bans wearing “conspicuous religious symbols” in French schools only applies to headscarves, it doesn't extend to long skirts – but she couldn't face the confrontation. “She [the headmistress] was telling me all sort of things, that I wouldn't find work, that God wouldn't feed me. A counsellor told me she was saying nasty things about Muslims in the staff room. I thought it was unfair”, she says, “Why could I not be free to practise my religion and go to school?”

Since then, Aurélie has taken up a paid correspondance course and is training to be a child minder. She managed to pay for it by finding work and minds two little girls for a (non-Muslim) family. Of her employers, she says: “They don't care that I'm wearing a veil and never asked any questions. They're just very open. A few times, one of the little girls has told me: Aurélie, you've got beautiful hair, why do you hide it? –  but I won't go into it with her. I don't want to put her into my religion – everyone has to choose freely.”

Aurélie, whose Catholic family comes from Ivory Coast, converted to Islam when she was 16, as did two of her siblings.  Many members of her family object to her wearing a veil. “It took me a long time to decide to do it,” she says, “I used to be really into boys – a boys' girl – but then I thought, if I am to meet a man, it doesn't have to be in a nightclub.” The teenager objects to laws banning the veil. “Forbidding religious symbols doesn't make sense. Of course, France is a secular country, but when nuns are wearing a veil in the street, everybody smiles at them, and when it's Muslim women, it's another story.”

The media storm

Pierre Tevanian teaches philosophy in high school. He is a writer, a member of collective Les Mots sont importants (“Words are important”) and has been one of the leading figures of the secular opposition to the veil ban in France. When I meet him in his Belleville apartment, he tells me how a series of isolated cases opposing headscarf-wearing girls and their teachers in the 90's became a national debate in France after 9/11. In a climate of economic crisis and growing islamophobia, it led to a quasi-unanimous national consensus.

In April 2003, Nicolas Sarkozy, then Interior Minister, attended the biggest Muslim annual meeting in France (the “UOIF”) and declared that women had to unveil themselves for identity photos. He was booed by the audience, which made the headlines – and was deemed outrageous. From then, media attention grew. “There were constant debates about the veil, the veil, the veil, the veil”, recalls Tevanian. In July 2003, president Chirac set up a Parliamentary Commission to reflect upon the application of laïcité (the separation of Church and State, a principle that has been enshrined in French law since 1905). Named after its chair, Bernard Stasi, the commission consisted of 20 members.

But the more people talked, be it in talk-shows or in front of the Commission, the less they seemed to talk about what the problem really was: a girl, wearing a headscarf, in a classroom. “There was a high level of generalisation, a lot of discussion about Iran or Afghanistan”, says Tevanian. In this general conversation, the veil was depicted as a unequivocal symbol of oppression, and the main argument against it appeared to be a feminist one. When I speak to her on the phone, Marie-Pierre Martinet, general secretary of Planning Familial, a leading feminist organisation in France, which has worked for decades to enable women to have access to sex education, contraceptives and abortion, tells me that “all religions impose a domination of men over women” and that “the veil is a symbol of this domination”. In practice, of course, she puts her views on the veil aside when she welcomes hijab-wearing women who need help in one of the Planning centers – but on a theoretical level, her unease remains. For most French feminists, a veiled feminism just can't be.

Racist stereotypes

Karima Ramdani, a 31-year-old sociology researcher currently completing a PhD on the history of indigenous women during colonisation, remembers her reaction to the 2003 debate: “When I saw the image of submissive veiled women that was pushed by the press, I was startled. It didn't correspond to the veiled women I knew, some of them from my family, some of them my friends. So I started researching the image of the veiled woman and found out that during Algerian colonisation, the veil had been used as an argument by the French to justify the civilising merits of colonisation – the image of a meek submissive veiled woman seemed to date from that time. During the Algerian war, a ceremony where women took off their veils was even staged by the French occupier to show they were liberating Algerian women.” The veil, Ramdani adds, wasn't considered a problem when women – some of them veiled – joined their husbands who had emigrated to France to work in the 1960's and the 70's. “This generation was a silent one,” she says. “They would work and keep their mouth shut. It was only after the descendants of immigrants marched against racism and stood up for their rights in the 1980's, that problems appeared.” Among the new generation that had grown up in France but was still not perceived as French, many started questioning what being Arab meant – and some of them looked for answers in religion, says Ramdani.

For Ramdani, a new stereotype arose thanks to people like Fadela Amara, a long time member of the Parti Socialiste, who created the Ni Putes Ni Soumises feminist organisation (“Neither Whores Nor Submissive”) in 2003, to oppose violence against women in the suburbs, contributed to creating new clichés. “She contrasted the image of the beurette, the young French Arab woman who wears mini-skirts and wants to be freed, with the image of an oppressed veiled woman.” Laïcité and the ban of headscarves in school would be the magical solution to the problems facing French suburbs and French schools. “Fadela Amara racialised violence against women,” says Tevanian, “just after the first extensive national study on violences against women came out – a report that showed that this violence was well-spread in all society. And, to people watching tv, she gave the impression that the ban on the veil was what the suburbs wanted.”

Most feminist associations failed to defend the rights of veiled girls, says Ramdani, because they saw the veil only as a symbol of oppression. “Feminists did not rise to a challenge that would have shown they were interested in what happens to all French women”, she says. “ We were in a country that was to pass a law establishing positive values of colonialim, yet it was as if they could envision only one feminism, and only one way for women to be emancipated.” But new feminist groups sprang up during the fight against the 2004 law, such as Une Ecole Pour Tous Et Toutes (“A school for all”), where young and old, veiled and non veiled women, experienced feminists and newcomers took part. More recently, in her book Libérez le féminisme ! (“Liberate feminism”), Morgane Merteuil, representative of the Strass (a trade union for sex workers) argued for a feminism that would be open to all, and accept veiled women, as well as prostitutes in its ranks.

Laïcité?

Jean Baubérot, a historian and an expert in the sociology of religion, is the only member of the Commission Stasi who abstained from the vote recommending a ban. He remembers the isolated case that sparked the scarf controversy in 1989, when three girls were suspended for refusing to remove their scarves in class in Creil. “Then,” he says, “the Conseil d'Etat issued a judgment ruling that proselytism didn't lie in someone's clothing but in someone's behaviour. I didn't agree with the shift It essentialises religion and prevents thinking. Based on the way a person dresses we peremptorily imagine the way she lives. To me, this seemed naïve and even obscurantist.”

For Tevanian, the 2004 law marks a reactionary departure from the concept of laïcité, a conservative revolution. “People kept saying that we had to go back to laïcité, go back to the French politician Jules Ferry, which was a fallacious rhetoric,” he says,”the fact that a new law had to be created showed that we weren't going back to anything, but revising something.” According to him, laïcité, as it was applied in France since the separation of Church and State in 1905, “guarantees the neutrality of the agents of the State, but not of the users of a public service. Like in a football match – it's the pitch that needs to be neutral, not the players, who need to be free to elaborate their game.” For Tevanian, shifting the obligation of neutrality to the users breaches the first article of the 1905 law, which guarantees freedom of conscience and freedom of worship. It also denies the right to education for all. “Proselytism,” he adds, “that is to say, trying to convince the other, is, as long as you don't try to intimidate the person in front of you, fundamental in a democracy.”

A decade of abuse

Following the 2004 law forbidding religious “conspicuous religious signs at school” (of which 3 Sikh boys were the collateral victims during the first year of application), Tevanian and others decided to make their own assessment of the law. They counted the girls who had been expelled for wearing the veil but also those who had resigned or failed to show up at the start of the school year and interviewed those who had agreed to take their veil off. Very quickly, they found numerous abuses of the law: cases where veiled girls had been denied the right to sit at an exam or to enrol at university, cases where veiled mothers had been barred access to a school when they had come  to pick up their child's end of term report – or barred from accompanying a school outing. And also cases where banks and gyms had refused access to veiled women. Actions against the veil had multiplied in higher education, in the workplace and in in public spaces

Anti veil sentiment was not confined to the right. When the far-left Nouveau Parti Anticapitaliste stood the headscarf-wearing Ilham Moussaid as a candidate in a local election in 2010, indignation rose from inside and outside her party. In an interview with Marianne magazine, Jean-Luc Mélenchon, leader of the Front de Gauche, condemned Moussaid candidacy: “Political debate mustn't take place on religious ground. Someone who takes part in an election must represent everybody and not only those whose religious convictions she shares.” France seemed to have forgotten having had a few cassock-wearing MPs, among which the famous abbé Pierre. At the end of 2010, Moussaid left the NPA and has retired from public life. She politely declined to be interviewed for this piece.

The 2004 ban also opened the door to other restrictions. The project of a law banning full-face veils from French streets arose during Sarkozy's presidency – Baubérot, the historian, tells me why he opposed it. “There was something dishonest about this law. All legal experts agreed that it would be impossible to argue on the grounds of laïcité, since we were talking about public space, so instead 'security' was used as an excuse. When I gave evidence to the Parliamentary Commission set up to reflect on the law, I said I didn't think people should have to constantly give proof of who they are.”  The scholar mischieviously points out that Eric Raoult, responsible of the Commission and author of a report defining the full-face veil as a rejection of the values of the Republic is currently being investigated by the police for domestic violence against his wife, allegedly sparked by an argument about the way she dressed - too revealingly, apparently.“To me this is symptomatic of the level of hypocrisy surrounding this law,” says Baubérot. “It was never intended to defend the freedom of these women.

Successive veil bans have resulted in a rise of abuse directed at veiled women. Lila Charef, legal officer at the Collectif contre l'Islamophobie, who runs a hotline helping victims of islamophobic acts, notes that the attackers generally refer to the  existence of a law and to the concept of laïcité. I spoke on the phone to Nina, who was assaulted while she was in a fun fair in Nantes with her kids, in September 2010, and she told me: “I felt a big blow and thought the merry-go-round had stopped. It was only when I saw this man saying: Now you're respecting the law that I realised what had happened – he had pulled my veil violently.” On that day, Nina called the police, immediately stating that she was wearing a full-face veil and therefore breaking the law, but was calling because she had been the victim of an assault. She is currently waiting for her attacker to be prosecuted. For her, the ban has done the opposite of what it said it would do: “It was meant to liberate women but it has forced us to stay home. In the past, the fact that I was a wearing a face-covering veil never dictated where I would go. I'd go to the movies, to the bowling, to the ice-skating rink, on holidays to India... Now I have nightmares at night about what happened and I stay at home a lot more.” To university-educated Nina, who's been a convert for 10 years, there is a difference between women who are forced to wear the veil and women who, like her, choose to do it (her husband told her that he would rather she wore cute beige skirts and a veil that leaves her face exposed). “If you're forced to wear the veil,” she says, “it loses all meaning. I am for every gothic kid to wear whatever he pleases, and for every woman to be free to do whatever she wants.”

Valeria Costa-Kostritsky is a French journalist based in London. This post first appeared on openDemocracy 50.50 here.

Veiled women carrying their ID demonstrating in Paris in January 2004 against plans to ban the Islamic headscarf from French schools. Photograph: Getty Images

Valeria Costa-Kostritsky is a French freelance journalist. She reports on social issues and contributes to the LRB, the Guardian, Index on Censorship and French Slate, with a particular interest in France and Russia. She is on Twitter as @valeria_wants.

 

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In the chaos of the Middle East, the world must stand behind the Kurds

The Kurdish people have shown themselves to be a small beacon of light in a sea of darkness.

It is one year since the lifting of the Siege of Kobanî. Many of us can recall harrowing images of the black flags of Isis flying threateningly from the surrounding hills, of car bombs being driven into the city’s defences, and of heroic citizens defending their houses and families from the despotic invaders intent on killing them. The Siege of Kobanî was the Stalingrad of the Syrian civil war – a true turning point in the battle against Isis.

Since then, we have seen a significant escalation in the involvement of the international community in Syria and Iraq. But to what end? Syria remains divided between various competing forces; Iraq is a half-governed country with declining influence over its populace. Foreign governments play power games across international boundaries which have long-since ceased to be relevant, least of all to those wishing to establish an Islamist caliphate.

Beheadings, suicide bombings, barrel bombs, religious extremism, violent intolerance, mass movements of people – these are just a few terms most associated with the Middle East today. To say the region is complex is an understatement bordering on ignorance.

In a recent PBS documentary, Inside Assad’s Syria, a television crew was sent to Damascus to cover its sectarian, religious and ideological divides. It showed us two halves to the city: one which lives in liberty and security; and another which resides in barrel-bombed apartment blocks and streets overrun with groups opposed to Bashar al-Assad.

In the southwest of Syria, pro-democratic force control pockets of land and fight Assad’s forces. In the northwest, Hezbollah works with Assad’s army to fight Islamist groups. Further north are areas ruled by groups with affiliations to Al Qaeda, such as the powerful al-Nusra Front. In the east, highways and cities have fallen to the apocalyptic regime of Isis, which stretches far across the old border into Iraq. What future does the Middle East have with such contrasting ideological and religious divides? It is near-impossible to offer a positive view for the future.

Resolving these issues will only be achieved in the long term and through a combination of local agreements (and perhaps the portioning of areas) of international oversight. In the short term, what can we do as citizens of a country with vested interests but limited power?

One of the problems of Western coverage and commentary is that we rarely view the Middle East in any way except through the prism of war. Debate is focused narrowly on the issues of intervention, extremism and migration. People are commonly talked about in derogatory terms with most mistakenly referred to as migrants, when many are fleeing from death and destruction.

These are people who, like us, desire to live in peace and security. They want to raise families and contribute to their communities. Although there are theological differences between Shias, Sunnis, Kurds, Christians, Jews and various minorities, for centuries these groups have lived alongside each other with general tolerance and respect. Churches have existed in the same cities as mosques. Yet the internecine conflicts have ruined the multiculturalism balances in Syria and Iraq. Communities have been divided against each other, sometimes on pain of death. The region is overrun with regressive forces.

Here in the UK, our view of foreign policy is shaped by the forming of alliances with progressive forces – that is those countries, governments and parties committed to values similar to our own. With the conflicts in Syria and Iraq as they are, dominated by regressive forces, our foreign policy is in disrepute. Who should we support in Syria? How can we continue to support Iraq’s army if it is being led on the ground by Iranian generals?

There is one force within the region that is progressive. They share our commitment to democracy, the rule of law and liberty. They have cohesive, well-led armed forces which not only protect their peoples, but also others in fear of persecution. Their women fight alongside their men, often in leadership positions. They have been the bulwark against Isis advances in both Iraq and Syria. They liberated Kobanî from oppression in tandem with US forces.

The Kurdish fighters of the People’s Protection Units (YPG) in Syria and the Peshmerga in Iraq have proved their strength and longevity in the face of enormous challenges. Lacking the weaponry appropriated by Isis, they have fought bravely and slowly liberated areas from tyranny. In doing so, they have treated non-Kurdish citizens well and protected them as they would wish to be protected by others. They have put their lives on the line for the common good, such as the taking of towns and cities outside of Kurdish areas. In doing so, they have refrained from declaring an expansion of Kurdish territory, instead stating that such lands will be handed over to local progressive groups when it is ready to do so.

Perversely, Western governments depend on Peshmerga and YPG forces to fight without adequately arming them. In Turkey, the same Kurdish citizens who would fight for the YPG against Isis are prosecuted and sometimes killed during clashes for protesting in favour of devolution. Turkey’s Kurdish populations in towns like Sur, Cizre, Nusaybin and many others are living under curfew. Yet we do nothing to raise this an issue.

Yet is it the Kurdish people that will be the first army to defeat the ideology of Isis. And because of this they are the biggest target. Their men and women are free. They live in lands governed by democracy, social justice and equality. They hold values in direct opposition to Isis but living in cities just miles apart. The Kurds are the only progressive force in the region which shares our values, has a commitment to democracy and has armies strong enough to protect its peoples.

If we believe in supporting those who share our values, we must show them our solidarity. Our support must go to Kurds as a whole not just those who fight for our interests, because the challenges Kurds face go beyond the borders set by the UK and France in 1920. These borders have been disregarded not only by Isis and al-Qaeda but also by Turkey, Iran, Saudi Arabia and Qatar, which have each ignored international boundaries in pursuit of their interests.

It is fair to say that this simple notion of solidarity leads us to certain complications. Kurdistan is an ancient region divided up by imperial powers between Turkey, Syria, Iraq and Iran. How do we support the Kurds without alienating our allies in Ankara and Baghdad?

During the 1991 Gulf War, the US, UK and France established a no-fly zone over Iraqi Kurdistan to protect Kurds from Saddam Hussein’s air force. A year later, the first free and fair elections were held in Kurdistan. It was also the first such election in the whole of Iraq. A decade on, whatever the merits of the conflict, the Peshmerga were allies of the Coalition during the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Since then, Kurdistan has remained steadfast in its commitment to a democratic future.

In Iraq, there is already a functioning Kurdish state in all but name. It is a pioneering force for democracy in the Middle East. In Iraqi Kurdistan there is a core set of values based on tolerance, respect and freedom of expression. Inclusiveness is enshrined in law. Women are recognised as equal citizens, with a law requiring that a minimum of 30 per cent of National Assembly seats must be taken by women. Furthermore, seats are also reserved for minority communities, with the Christian and Turkmen communities guaranteed at least five seats each. These values mirror our values.

We should adequately arm the Kurdish forces of the YPG and Peshmerga to adequately protect their lands. We must do whatever it takes to ensure Isis is restricted from further post-liberation resurgences, as was seen in the Kobanî region following the redeployment of Kurdish forces to Iraq. Over 350 were killed or injured in that resurgence, simply because YPG and Peshmerga forces are overstretched.

We should also seriously consider supporting Iraqi Kurdistan in its long-term ambition to be an independent state – when the time is right. No other people deserves it as do the Kurds. It is the largest homogenous nation on earth not represented by a unified state. They have a right to determine their own future. True, there are major issues to contend with – most notably corruption, political infighting and the continued presidency of Masoud Barzani beyond his legal mandate – however these issues can be overcome with the close help and guidance of the international community.

Outside of Kurdish controlled-areas lie lands ridden with conflict. We have seen our fellow citizens, friends and trading partners have their lives ruined by the twisted and hate-filled soldiers of Isis. In Syria, close to Kurdish cities, pro-democratic forces have been wiped out by Isis or other Islamist groups linked to Al-Qaeda. The rest of Syria is pock-marked with the barrel bombs dropped by Assad’s forces. Even within Kurdish-controlled areas, bombs have been dropped from Turkish planes on Kurdish YPG soldiers fighting for values which we would call our own. The region is highly complex and constantly changing.

Turkey is therefore a key player. Yet in recent years President Erdogan’s administration has escalated the conflict with the Kurdish citizens it represents. Peace talks between Abdullah Ocalan, the leader of the Kurdistan Workers Party (PKK), the People’s Democratic Party (HDP) and the Turkish government ended unsuccessfully in 2015. Erdogan appears determined to militarily crush the PKK before any negotiations around a lasting peace can recommence.

Turkey has refused to recognise either the YPG or the PYD – the main political party of Kurds in Syria – as a legitimate force on the ground, due to its concerns that any Kurdish autonomy in Syria may motivate Kurds in Turkey to demand similar rights. Before the Syrian civil war there were thought to be between 16-20 million Kurds resident in Turkey, in contrast to just two million in Syria.

For Erdogan, this issue is of greater importance than what is occurring in Syria and Iraq. During the Siege of Kobanî, Ankara refused Kurdish YPG fighters the right to travel across the border into Kobanî to fight Isis forces. Rather than allow them to protect their families and friends, Turkey sprayed them with tear gas and removed their weapons. Significant international pressure belatedly led to Ankara allowing Peshmerga Forces to travel from Iraqi Kurdistan and enter Kobanî through Turkey – and just in time to save the city from Isis. In the interim period, Isis recruits routinely crossed over the border with ease.

The Erdogan administration’s conflict with its own Kurdish citizens is undoubtedly complex. Many Kurds in Turkey want some level of recognition and autonomy but it is not known how many desire outright independence. A free and fair poll has never been carried out and would not be tolerated by Ankara. President Erdogan prefers to suppress opinion rather than encourage it. Where is our solidarity for people demanding human rights?

While Turkey’s air forces have been bombing the Kurdish-controlled Kandil mountainous areas in Iraq, often missing Kurdish forces, Ankara has remained a strong ally of the government in Iraqi Kurdistan, which it sees as a correcting force against the regional influences of Riyadh and Tehran. However, Ankara fears an independent Kurdistan and the effects this may have on the Kurdish populations of Turkey and Syria. Ankara fears the establishment of a Greater Kurdistan, an option which is not on the table and most Kurds do not think is achievable.

Each of these issues is interconnected. Though Kurds in Iraq may carry different passports to those in Syria and Turkey, they similarly identify as Kurdish peoples. They share a culture, a religion and a language. The challenges faced by Kurds in Syria are of utmost concern to Kurds in neighbouring countries. There is a fraternity that must not be dismissed.

The Kurdish question in Turkey is obviously complicated. Turkey remains a critical member for the NATO alliance with its landing strips used to carry out bombing raids on Isis. Therefore, keeping Ankara on side is important to Washington. This is why we in the West have been relatively silent on the Kurdish issue. Meanwhile, the international and national boundaries of Iraq and Syria are now so distorted to be almost beyond repair. Kurds control areas beyond that of Kurdistan, with no other force strong enough to protect people in those areas. In our determination not to ‘put boots on the ground’, we ask Peshmerga and YPG forces to do the heavy lifting and endure the casualties of a conflict we in part caused. This is unfair to the Kurdish people.

We must encourage Turkey to end the Kurdish conflict within its borders. Ankara must resume peace talks with Abdullah Ocalan and the HDP – now the third biggest group in the grand assembly of Turkey. Ankara should accept that the Kurdish question cannot be resolved by militarily means. The overarching issues of inequality, equal citizenship and minority rights are beyond the control of even the strongest of strongmen.

The UK can help resolve the Kurdish question. We have long been a supporter of Turkey’s aspiration to become an EU member. We should agree to accelerate that process in return for allowing the EU to broker a peace. We have a duty to the citizens of any state which harbours ambition to join us. We have a duty to protect people’s human rights.

At the same time, we should support the Peshmerga and YPG as they fight a common foe. Defeating Isis forces in Iraq and Syria would reduce the Islamists’ ability to train home-grown jihadists and send them back to European cities. We should support them with weapons and finances in return for guarantees over human rights and post-conflict governance of the areas they retake from Isis.

The Kurdish people have shown themselves to be a small beacon of light in a sea of darkness. If we believe in the values of democracy, tolerance and freedom of expression – we must support those peoples that practice them. There are small steps we can take to show them our solidarity. We must do what we can to support them.

Ibrahim Dogus is the Director of the Centre for Turkey Studies (www.ceftus.org) and the Director of the Centre for Kurdish Progress (www.kurdishprogress.org).