France’s center-right and left political parties are coalescing around a controversial issue: the idea of a national, parliamentary ban on the niqab. Proponents of the ban cite the threat of Islamism to France’s position as a secular state, and argue further that the niqab is both a symbol of and an act of the oppression of women. Opponents claim that banning the niqab is a discriminatory attack on Muslims, and still others point out that banning the public wearing of any article of clothing is a tricky issue and might be impossible under France’s laws. In many ways the proposed ban signals the fever pitch that has been reached in the debate regarding Islam in France, a debate that resulted in a 2004 ban on headscarves in public schools (a ban that included all overtly religious symbols, including Jewish skullcaps, large Christian crosses, and Sikh turbans) and the denial of citizenship in 2008 for a Muslim woman that wears the niqab, on the grounds that her submission to her male relatives is counter to the sex equality inherent to being French.
This debate seems to pit several competing rights against each other, and in particular the right of individuals and groups to freely express their religious beliefs in public and the obligation of a State to protect and facilitate this right, and the right to be free from gender based discrimination and the obligation of a State to enact laws and take actions to ensure this right. The discussion taking place regarding the proposed ban is also uniquely French, given both that the Muslim population in France is the largest in any Western European country and that an estimated 5 million of the 63 million people living in France are Muslim, and France’s strong and often uncompromising position as a secular state suspicious of organized religious groups. Due to the complex context in which the debate over banning the niqab is taking place, it seems possible that everything is all at once true: it is possible that the garments do represent gender based discrimination, and a threat to France’s secularism, and it is also possible that the attempts to ban them are racist and discriminatory, and a manifestation of French and general European anti-Muslim sentiment.
France could be targeting Muslims, unfairly discriminating against them, making them bear an unequal burden not experienced by those practicing other religions. It could be that debates over banning the niqab, arguments about whether “burquinis” (loose bathing suits that cover the full body and hair and are worn by some Muslim woman for modesty while swimming) are sanitary at public swimming pools, President Sarkozy’s statements that the burqa is not welcome in France, and the deliberate use by politicians and the media of the word burqa as opposed to niqab (the latter is slightly less concealing, as it shows a woman’s eyes) to conjure up Afghanistan and thus fear and antipathy are deliberately and inherently racist and anti-Muslim. Further, the negative effects of the debates and the bans to date could in themselves be considered additional human rights violations: perhaps the head scarf ban is impairing Muslim girls’ rights to education, or perhaps this debate has a chilling effect that hinders Muslim women’s rights to work because it stigmatizes them in the eyes of employers. Evidence demonstrates that after the banning of headscarves in public schools in 2004, Muslim enrollment in Catholic schools increased, because private Catholic schools allow girls to wear headscarves. But if families cannot afford such schools, or if this increased enrollment represents increased segregation, do these effects imply additional human rights concern?
On the other hand, what if the proponents of the ban are also correct? What if wearing the niqab flies in the face of France’s secularism and is disruptive to France’s ideas of citizenship? What if most French people feel that when they view a woman wearing a niqab they are witnessing oppression, and feel that the surest way to remove both such a sign of inequality and the act of it is to ban garment? If it is true that women and girls are forced by their families to wear such garments–a complex issue that is certainly difficult to get to the bottom of, as one would expect people being controlled to say that they are not–wouldn’t a ban provide the freedom and liberation that cannot be gained otherwise? Wouldn’t allowing (requiring?) girls to experience education free from the obligation to wear such garments also allow them to experience the option of secular dress, which they might not otherwise have? And isn’t it a State’s obligation to provide such options in public spaces for all of its inhabitants, regardless of the inhabitant’s religion, creed, ethnicity, national origin, or citizenship status?
And yet–why these garments in particular? Surely there are other garments that present the same set of problems? For that matter, why garments? Is what women wear the key to their status in society? If France is particularly concerned about sex equality in public spaces, are Muslim garments the most important issue on which to focus? It would be a rare moment in modern feminist history if the passion with which this issue is being debated was truly, purely, entirely motivated by desires for sex equality. Unfortunately, women’s rights issues do not typically enjoy this much air time, nor do they garner such fervent support. The pitch of the debate in France indicates that, even if women’s rights are one motivation for the proposed ban, they are certainly not the only motivation.
Perhaps these competing ideals and converging forces, many of them discriminatory, are what render the debate regarding Islam in France confused and confusing, impassioned and polarizing. What is discrimination against women for some French citizens can easily be seen as a right to religious expression by others. Political parties and governments often manipulate the idea of sex equality when it suits their aims; France justifies its military presence in Afghanistan on such grounds, as did the United States under President Bush, despite the fact that women and girls are often the most harmed by war. Sex equality concerns often create strange bedfellows, and this would not be the first time the right and left have coalesced on “gender” issues but have been motivated by diametric forces. And certainly, if a political party or government wants to attack one religion or racial group, they will not say so outright, but will cloak their policies in other, more palatable, more popular terms.
On the other hand, just because something is a religious practice does not mean it is not oppressive to women, or that people should be free to practice it in any situation. Nor should religions be thought of as unchanging and separate from the worlds and contexts in which they are practiced, but than again, neither should national or political cultures be conceived as static; perhaps it is France’s laïcité that should bend to its changing demographic. Certainly there should be some rational reasons behind the decision to preserve one and ban the other, rather than tradition or continuity for its own sake.
It will be informative to see whether or not the proposed ban on the niqab is found illegal under existing French laws. As other parts of Western Europe, such as Denmark and Germany, continue to expand bans on garments worn publicly by Muslim women for religious reasons, the outcome of France’s current parliamentary proposal could have a wider regional significance. A decision on the proposed ban could clarify lines drawn between private practice and truly public spaces, such as streets. On the other hand, if equally valid human rights are at odds in this scenario, it will be difficult for the parliament or courts to weigh them against each other without using political reasons to reach a conclusion as to which should prevail.
