French Islamophobia: How Orthopraxy Is Conceptualized as a Public Peril

Abstract

For over two decades, France’s Muslim population has faced a series of legal measures and hostile public narratives aimed at problematizing their faith. Notable examples include the 2004 national ban on “ostentatious religious symbols” in state schools, which prohibits obligatory religious dress in various settings. These individual instances are compounded by more recent broader policies, decisions, laws, and executive statements that negatively impact Muslim life. This paper examines France’s trajectory from a new perspective: A Muslim legal viewpoint. It argues that the French approach constitutes a two-step process of institutionalized Islamophobia, understood here as hostility towards Islam as a faith. First, the state redefines mainstream Islamic orthopraxy as “extreme”, pitting ordinary religious practices against averred Republican values. Second, it seeks to promote an alternative concept of a “French Islam”—one that aligns with France’s secular principles and is stripped of its religious essence—positioning it as the only acceptable framework for Muslims to practice their faith in France. We argue that this process is not about upholding laïcité or state neutrality; rather, invoking the latter serves as a smokescreen for the state’s Islamophobia.

1. Introduction

France is home to Europe’s largest Muslim minority, a community of approximately 6 million, which makes up about 10 percent of its overall population (Drouhot et al. 2023). Despite accounting for a comparatively large proportion of the population, living in France as a Muslim is becoming an increasingly taxing experience. Recent events give a flavor of this. In June 2023, a 17-year-old Muslim French citizen of Moroccan and Algerian descent, Nahel Merzouk, was shot dead by French police during a routine traffic stop. The initial official police response, reinforced by French media, claimed that officers had been threatened and were acting in self-defense. This was found to be untrue by subsequent video evidence of the incident. Then, in August 2023, the country imposed a national ban on the ʿabāyah, a loose over-dress similar to the Japanese kimono, in schools. This ban was subsequently upheld by France’s Conseil d’État (“the Court”) (Decision No. 87891), the highest court for public law related questions. The Court reiterated that, according to French law, students were not allowed to wear anything that could be linked to their religious identity. Meanwhile, at the 2024 Paris Olympics and Paralympics, despite a distancing from the measure by the International Olympic Committee, the French Republic’s female Muslim athletes were the only contestants worldwide denied from participating if they chose to wear the ḥijāb. This decision followed another judgment by the Conseil d’État upholding the French Football Federation’s recent ban of the ḥijāb during its competitions (Conseil d’État 2023a, Decision Nos. 458088, 459547 and 463408).

We contend that these decisions must be viewed within a wider trajectory of legislative and executive measures as well as official policy targeting France’s Muslim population—both openly and covertly. Within this context, as is well known, a key turning point in France’s approach towards her largest minority group occurred in 2004, when the wearing of “ostentatious religious symbols” in state schools, which make up approximately 90 percent of France’s primary and secondary education system (Ministry of National Education and Youth 2023), was banned by Law No 2004-228 of 15 March 2004 (“the 2004 Law”).1 This marked the first far-reaching interference into religious freedoms at a state level, while at the same time prompting a shift in the public narrative and jurisprudence. Since its enactment, public restrictions and hostile narratives have been steadily intensifying such that many French Muslims, particularly highly educated professionals, are emigrating, citing the desire to practice their religion more peacefully as the primary motivator for their relocation (Esteves 2023, p. 249). Meanwhile, 70 percent revealed they had emigrated to face less frequent incidents of racism and discrimination (ibid.). In 2019, the French Institute of Public Opinion found that 42 percent of Muslims reported experiencing discrimination, a figure that rises to 60 percent among Muslim women who wear the ḥijāb (Le Monde 2019). Importantly, the increasingly hostile environment towards Muslims has been sustained not by the far right, which recently achieved unprecedented electoral success (Briancon 2024), but by successive center-right and center-left governments. In sharp contrast to UN findings of discrimination against Muslims in France (e.g., UN Human Rights Office of the High Commissioner 2024), the European Court of Human Rights and the Court of Justice of the European Union have generally upheld restrictions on Muslim practices, such as wearing the veil, in France and other European countries (e.g., Mikyas and Others v. Belgium 2024). This sits within a wider context of rising discrimination against Muslims in the European Union (European Union Agency for Fundamental Rights 2024).

In this paper, we argue that France’s legal and policy framework is Islamophobic, which we define as hostility towards Muslims as a racialized group and as antipathy towards Islam as a religion. We counter the suggestion that France is merely seeking to limit all kinds of religious expression in public, showing that it is specifically ordinary Islamic practices which are deemed unacceptable. Indeed, we contend that French Islamophobia can be understood as a two-step process. The first step involves constructing Islam itself as inherently “extreme” and as an existential threat to the French Republic. This framing then paves the way for the second step: the creation of a “French Islam” stripped of mainstream Islamic orthopraxy. France’s restrictions on the wearing of the veil and other limitations on Muslim dress form a key part of our discussion. That said, our analysis casts a wider net, demonstrating that successive French governments vilify mainstream Muslim practices in a broader spectrum of contexts, including, for example, Muslim culinary choices and civic participation. By “mainstream Muslim practices” we do not mean practices that are widely followed by or popular among Muslims. Rather, we refer to orthopraxy as recognized by the legal framework of mainstream Sunni Islam, which is followed by the vast majority of French Muslims and about 90 percent of Muslims worldwide (Pew Research Center 2009). By examining the treatment of Muslims in France through a Muslim legal perspective, this paper distinguishes itself from other academic contributions that have analyzed French restrictions through the lenses of, for instance, securitization (Evranos 2023), authoritarianism (Wolfreys 2023), racial studies (Beaman 2019), feminism (Wing and Smith 2005), and discrimination (Escafré-Dublet et al. 2023).

2. Defining Islamophobia

Seeing as we make the claim that French regulations are Islamophobic, it is pertinent to clarify how we understand this term. The prevailing view in Western academia considers Islamophobia to be a form of racism. Modood (2005) is a prominent proponent of this perspective, significantly contributing to its dominance within academic discourse (see also Sayyid and Vakil 2010; Kumar 2012; Garner and Selod 2015; Love 2017; Opratko 2017; Massoumi et al. 2017). Specifically, Modood proposes that Islamophobia is a form of cultural racism, which “builds on biological racism a further discourse that evokes cultural differences from an alleged (…) civilized norm to vilify, marginalize or demand cultural assimilation from groups who also suffer from biological racism” (Modood 2005, p. 29). In short, Islamophobia follows a two-step process: color racism compounded by cultural racism (Modood 2019).

The ideation of Islamophobia as a form of racism has been adopted by a range of academics, who have focused on highlighting its different aspects and phases. For instance, Werbner (2005), Sayyid and Vakil (2010), Grosfoguel (2012), and Kumar (2012) examine Islamophobia from a strategic viewpoint, framing it as a mechanism within an imperialist-capitalist paradigm. Conversely, the works of Lean (2017) and Massoumi et al. (2017) delve into the mechanisms, agents, and institutions that perpetuate Islamophobia at various societal levels, epitomizing what could be described as “a movement-centered approach” (Massoumi et al. 2017). Another perspective is the procedural viewpoint, as seen in the contributions of Selod and Embrick (2013) and Garner and Selod (2015), which enhance our understanding of the racialization process affecting Muslims.

Recent empirical studies have, however, shown that hostility towards Islam as a religion forms another important dimension of Islamophobia (Sealy 2021; Uenal et al. 2021; Jones and Unsworth 2023). In their study of Islamophobia in the UK, Jones and Unsworth show that “anti-Islamic prejudice and anti-Muslim prejudice, rather than being one and the same, are located differently” (Jones and Unsworth 2023, p. 15) (see also Lauwers 2019). In his study of Muslim converts’ experience of Islamophobia, Sealy (2021) also concludes that hostility towards Islam is a central element of Islamophobia. Meanwhile, the results of Uenal et al.’s (2021) empirical study also lead them to conclude that anti-Islam sentiment is an important dimension of Islamophobia, distinct from antipathy towards Muslims.

We concur with this research, arguing that Islamophobia can be understood as being multifaceted, encompassing both a type of racism and hostility toward Islam as a theology. While racism perceives “Muslimness” as inherent and immutable, anti-Islam bigotry frames Islam as a distinct entity with its own agency. It draws on doctrinal falsehoods and distortions to depict Islam as inherently aggressive, irrational, misogynistic, and a perpetual threat to the West. By focusing on the latter aspect of the definition, this paper demonstrates how France’s legal system serves as a critical instrument in sustaining Islamophobia by enacting laws that exploit long-standing stereotypes and reinforce systemic hostility towards Islam as a religion.

To put it succinctly, anti-Muslim tropes in the West have long depicted Muslims through a lens of sexual licentiousness, barbarity, and irrationality, intertwining these themes with narratives of violence and misogyny (Daniel 1960; Said 1979, 1981). This portrayal is evident in the works of thinkers and philosophers as well as in literature, art, and film (Said 1979; Shaheen 2003; Kumar 2012; Norton 2013). Examples of these tropes specifically in the French context include Voltaire’s 1736 play, where the Prophet Moḥammad (peace be upon him) is portrayed as the epitome of both fanaticism and sensuality. Similarly, Montesquieu’s 1721 Lettres Persanes depicts Muslims as oppressive, particularly in their treatment of women. Despite unequivocal evidence to the contrary (Saliba 2007), Ernest Renan, in his 1883 lecture “Islam and Science”, described Islam as inherently opposed to reason and scientific progress, echoing long-standing tropes of Islam as irrational. While these examples span the 18th and 19th centuries, it is important to recognize that the shaping of views about Islam in France date as far back as the 12th century with the influence of the Cluniac Corpus (Daniel 1960). This collection featured a translation of the Qu’ran entitled, Law of Muhammad the False Prophet, considered the first Latin translation of the Qu’ran. These examples reveal a historical continuity of Islamophobia. Furthermore, it warrants highlighting that many “Enlightenment” thinkers continue to be celebrated as foundational figures of the French Republic and its ideals of Republican universalism (Ministère de la Culture 2023). Their enduring legacy embeds longstanding anti-Muslim tropes within the framework of French secularism, shaping contemporary narratives around Islam in France. Prior to proceeding to discuss how the different policies and laws affect mainstream religious Muslim practices, it is vital to understand Islam as a lived religion. This will elucidate how the French laws and policies in question impact practicing Muslims in very compromising ways.

3. Islam, a Lived Religion: Between Orthodoxy and Orthopraxy

Islam, one of the world’s major monotheistic religions, is characterized by both its theological doctrines (orthodoxy) and its prescribed practices (orthopraxy). The Sunni tradition, accounting for about 90 percent of Muslims globally (Pew Research Center 2009), emphasizes both. Being a lived religion, Islam deeply influences the daily lives of its adherents through a combination of beliefs and actions. Orthodoxy in Islam centers on the core Six Articles of Faith, the most fundamental concept being Tawhid, the oneness and uniqueness of God. This orthodoxy provides the theological framework that shapes a Muslim’s worldview and understanding of their place in the universe. Islam also places significant emphasis on orthopraxy—the correct performance of religious duties and practices. The Five Pillars of Islam, shahādah (testimony of faith), salāh (prayer), zakāh (annual charity), sawm (fasting during the month of Ramadan), and hajj (major pilgrimage), are key examples. However, prescribed religious practice is not limited to these five. In fact, Islamic law covers a wide range of aspects, including personal hygiene, dietary rules, family life, and social interactions. This comprehensive approach to religious practice means that, for practicing Muslims, their faith is inseparable from their daily routines. Taken together, orthodoxy and orthopraxy guide the life of “a self that has a deeply-rooted inclination toward worship of and submission to the Creator” (Hannini 2024).

Islamic law, which covers both orthodoxy and orthopraxy, is derived from two main sources: The Qurʾān and Sunnah. The first is, for Muslims, the literal word of God. The second refers to the practices and sayings of the Prophet Moḥammad. There are four main schools of jurisprudence (Fiqh) in Sunni Islam—madhāhib—each of which can be understood as a different methodological approach to deducing the law. Combined, the four schools of law represent mainstream Sunni Islam. Differences between the schools pertain to nuanced matters, such as the importance of the sequence in ablutions before prayer. There is, however, no difference of opinion between the schools on the central obligations a Muslim must fulfil, and the main aspects of permissible (ḥalāl) and impermissible (ḥarām) actions, such as not consuming alcohol and only consuming halal food, praying five times per day at prescribed times, and for men and women not to show certain parts of their bodies (‘awrah), which, as we discuss below, for women includes covering their hair and neck (now termed ḥijāb).

Focusing more on some of these unanimously recognized obligations, the daily prayer forms an integral element of a Muslim’s life. It is so central to a Muslim’s life that, according to Islamic tradition, it is the first thing a person will be questioned about when they die. It is foundational to what it means to be Muslim and exemplifies the orthopraxical nature of Islam, where correct and consistent religious observance is seen as crucial to living a faithful life.

Another critical aspect of a practicing Muslim’s life is diet. Specifically, Muslims must eat ḥalāl, which requires that meat is slaughtered according to specific rituals and that food, in general, is free from impermissible substances such as alcohol and pork. As with ḥijāb (discussed below), the requirement to eat ḥalāl is explicitly set out in the Qur’ān. Similar to the ḥijāb, there is ‘ijmāʿ (consensus) among Sunni scholars that a Muslim must only consume ḥalāl food.

Dress is another important aspect that Islam regulates, particularly in the public space. Muslim men and women are commanded to cover their ʿawrah, which loosely translates as nakedness. For women, this includes covering their hair and neck, traditionally done by wearing what is today referred to as the ḥijāb. Related to dress is the requirement that men and women avoid tight or revealing clothing. For women, this has traditionally meant wearing a loose outer garment known as an ʿabāyah. While men do not have to cover their hair and neck, they too are under a religious obligation not to show certain parts of their body in public (anything between the navel and the knee, at minimum). This requirement is often overlooked—if at all known—in Western discussions, where the focus is on Muslim women’s dress codes. Consequently, the fact that women must cover their hair whereas men do not is not seen as problematic in the Islamic tradition, it being understood that men and women have different obligations without this impacting on either gender’s respective dignity or worth.

The ruling for the ḥijāb comes from the Qurʾān and is further supported by hadith. The two main verses relied on to ascertain the prescribed dress code for women were revealed, and therefore became legally effective, within two to three months of each other, both of them five years after the Muslim migration to Medina following persistent persecution in Makkah. The key verse is found in chapter 24 (Surāh al-Nur), complemented by Chapter 33 of the Qurʾān (Surāh al-Aḥzāb). As for the former, an English translation of part of verse 31 instructs the Prophet Moḥammed as follows:

“And tell believing women that they should lower their eyes, guard their private parts, and not display their charms beyond what [it is acceptable] to reveal;^a they should draw their coverings over their necklines and not reveal their charms except to their husbands, their fathers, their husband’s fathers, their sons, their husband’s sons, their brothers, their brother’s sons, their sisters’ sons, their womenfolk, their slaves, such men as attend them who have no desire, or children who are not yet aware of women’s nakedness …”.

(Abdel Haleem 2008, p. 222)

The key to understanding verse 31 lies in its original Arabic version. The word used there for what above is translated as “coverings” is khumurihinna, which was commonly understood in Arabic to mean head coverings (Alkiek 2021). As Imam al-Qurtubi, a classical scholar and legal exegetist, explained in his commentary on this verse, “Women in those days used to cover their heads with the khimar (head covering), throwing its ends upon their backs. This left the neck and the upper part of the chest bare, along with the ears, in the manner of the Christians. Then Allah commanded them to cover those parts with the khimar” (translation of Tafsir al-Qurtubi, quoted in Meah (2016)). Thus, the Qur’ānic revelation confirmed the practice of covering the head, and added further requirements as the custom of the time was not sufficient. Put differently, “[n]ot only does the Qur’ānic text make it clear that women are expected to veil, it also dictates the extent of the veiling, i.e., covering the neck and cleavage” (Ansari 2016).

The issue of ḥijāb, in a legal sense, is misunderstood in the Western discourse, both in academia and in lay conversations. While often presented as a complex matter on which there are many different interpretations, there is in fact no ambiguity—it is unanimously agreed upon across all four Sunni schools of law that the ḥijāb is a religious obligation, mandatory for women from when they enter puberty. While fringe views may exist outside the framework of Islamic jurisprudence—and have, at times, been disproportionately amplified in Western academic discourse—they fall outside the recognized legal traditions adhered to by the overwhelming majority of the world’s Muslims and hold no validity from an Islamic legal perspective. In other words, while it is of course correct to say that Islam has embedded within it a high level of plurality on many issues, ḥijāb is not one of them; it is a standardized part of orthopraxy for Muslim women—it is at its source a religious obligation, not a mere cultural or political practice. However, as Fernando insightfully highlights, French public discourse renders it almost impossible for Muslim women to present the ḥijāb as an integral aspect of Islamic orthopraxy; “[i]n efforts to normalize the headscarf, young Muslim French women have to deemphasize its Islamic character. Disembedded from its location in a wider set of ethical norms, the headscarf is a choice like any other. But that disembedding makes it difficult to argue either legally or ethically for the headscarf’s special status as a religious practice. (…) Once the headscarf becomes just a piece of cloth, akin to a do-rag, the choice of whether to wear it is no longer a question of religious freedom” (Fernando 2014, p. 172).

We highlight this legal dimension not to make a normative argument in the abstract, but rather to make good on one of the central claims of this paper: that French restrictions aim to reshape the Islamic faith by attempting to recast core mandatory practices as optional, and even as suspicious “extremes” that believers can—and should—do without. Secondly, the above presentation of the Islamic legal framework demonstrates the impact of the French restrictions on Muslims in a personal capacity. Secular restrictions on dress are particularly challenging to navigate for practicing Muslim women precisely because they are religiously obliged to cover their ʿawrah; this is non-negotiable from a faith perspective. Thus, in light of Islam requiring the submission of the self to the will of God, and seeing as the will of God is by consensus understood to include the covering of the hair and neck for female believers, the adopted limitations cut much deeper than they would if they targeted something the faith deems optional or merely recommended, which would be easier to compromise from a believer’s point of view. The fact that many Muslim women choose not to wear the ḥijāb, for a variety of reasons, does not affect its nature as a religious obligation, just like a Muslim choosing not to fulfill their five daily prayers does not render the latter optional.

In summary, understanding Islam as a lived religion, with its integration of orthodoxy and orthopraxy, the latter of which includes mandatory actions that are not controversial from a mainstream Muslim point of view, provides a crucial starting point to demonstrating how French laws and policies impact the daily lives of Muslims by targeting the very essence of mainstream Islam as opposed to addressing fringe or so-called “extremist” Islamic practices.

4. France’s Restrictions on Female Muslim Dress

Turning to the legal framework governing women’s dress in France, we can observe that it is an animosity towards Islam and the forceful presence of—and the reliance on—long-held anti-Islamic tropes that justify the legal restrictions adopted. One such trope is that Islam is inherently sexist and subjugating of women, this being linked to a supposed Muslim tendency towards “backwardness”, and thus warranting that Muslim women need saving (Abu-Lughod 2002). This stereotype finds expression in various legal measures targeting women’s dress adopted over the past twenty years.

Indeed, just over twenty years ago, France adopted the most significant piece of legislation in this regard; the 2004 Law, triggering a seismic shift in the narrative and trajectory of legal measures concerning Muslim practices. Before the adoption of the 2004 Law, action against religious dress was taken on a case-by-case basis, leaving the choice to schools of whether or not to ban certain items. Notably, in the context of one of the disputes arising during the time prior to the national ban, the Conseil d’État, when asked to determine whether the wearing of certain “signs” was compatible with the principle of secularism, found that discrimination based on dress was unacceptable, and that pupils wearing signs by which they intended to manifest their belonging to a religion was not by itself—i.e., in the absence of disruptive acts—incompatible with the principle of secularism (Conseil d’État 1989, Decision No. 346.893).

In a line of cases in the 1990s, the Court further reinforced this stance, assessing the cases brought before it in a way that focused on religious freedom first, followed by an analysis as to whether any harm had as a matter of fact been caused by the wearing of a particular garment. For example, in 1996, the Court considered that the wearing of the ḥijāb by seventeen pupils who had been expelled was intended to express their religious convictions and could not be regarded as a sign which by its nature is ostentatious or demanding, or that it would necessarily constitute an act of pressure or proselytism (Conseil d’État 1996, Decision Nos.170207, 170208). The school’s expulsion was upheld, however not on the basis of the wearing of the ḥijāb, but rather on the basis of protest activities at the school that the students were said to have engaged in. In other words, the Conseil d’État focused on the applicants’ actual behavior, which was deemed disruptive and unlawful, rather than the wearing of religious clothing, which could not itself justify expulsion.

The 2004 Law brought an end to the Court’s more balanced approach. It was introduced by then-President Chirac in endorsement of the Stasi Report (Stasi Report 2003) (“the Report”). The latter had recommended the banning of “conspicuous” religious symbols from schools. Relevantly for the present discussion, while the Report adopts the purportedly neutral language of “religious symbols”—thereby on the face of it applying to all religions equally—its wider discussion shows that the ban is aimed at Muslims alone. This is evidenced by the language in the Report. First, the two examples mentioned as being captured by the ban alongside the ḥijāb—the Christian “big cross” and the Jewish kippa—are not discussed in any detail in the Report. In fact, the latter does not discuss the wearing of the cross at all, whereas the wearing of the kippa is discussed in one short paragraph which merely highlights that it can be dangerous for children to wear it lest they be targets of anti-Semitic attacks, thereby painting Jewish students exclusively as potential victims. Conversely, the wearing of the ḥijāb is linked to being a threat to society, while at the same time being conceptualized as an oppressive force Muslim girls need to be saved from. Thus, the Report alludes to there being a link between “grant[ing] the same rights to Islam as to other religions” and “the fear of opening up spaces of influence to a militant wing that does not conceive of Islam only as a religion but as a global political project” (ibid., p. 34, translated). It also states that the ḥijāb could be seen as “an attack on the principles and values that schools must teach, in particular equality between men and women” (ibid., p. 57, translated, emphasis added) and that “many young girls and women from immigrant backgrounds need to be protected” from Islamist groups as well as family and neighborhood pressure (ibid., p. 58, translated); “the Republic cannot remain deaf to the cry of distress of these young girls. The school space must remain a place of freedom and emancipation for them” (ibid., p. 58, translated, emphasis added). These statements reflect the perpetuation of century-old Islamophobic tropes that portray women as inherently subjugated in Islam and “in need of saving” (Abu-Lughod 2002) as opposed to them observing a mandatory religious practice.

Implementing the wording and broader discussion of the Report, Article 1 of the 2004 Law amended France’s Education Code, prescribing that “[i]n public schools, middle schools and high schools, the wearing of signs or clothing by which students ostentatiously manifest a religious affiliation is prohibited” (translated). Following its enactment, the Conseil d’État adjusted its jurisprudence, holding, for example, in 2007, that in light of the importance attached to the principle of secularism in public schools, the permanent expulsion of a pupil who refused to comply with the legal prohibition established by the 2004 Law was not a disproportionate infringement of the freedom of religion under Article 9 of the European Convention on Human Rights (“ECHR”), nor a violation of the principle of non-discrimination secured by Article 14 ECHR (Conseil d’État 2007, Decision No. 295671). This was because, according to France’s highest Court, the 2004 Law aimed at ensuring compliance with the principle of secularism in public schools without discrimination between pupils’ different faiths. In other words, wearing a marker of one’s faith to comply, from a Muslim legal perspective, with an integral obligation of the faith, was equated with discriminating against others. This logical fallacy also features in the Report, and has persisted to the present day (see burkini discussion below). Quite clearly, it is Muslims who are being discriminated against, rather than Muslims discriminating against others. Indeed, Human Rights Watch argued that the 2004 Law was discriminatory due to the disproportionate impact it would have on Muslim women, astutely observing at the time the bill was passed that there was no compelling public safety, public health or public morality reason necessitating this measure; nor would the ḥijāb undermine a school’s educational function (Human Rights Watch 2004).

The adopted restrictions force Muslims in France to make stark choices, with serious personal and mental health implications. As Cox has argued, “for a devout Muslim woman… an anti-veiling law becomes a high-profile test of her loyalty to God” (Cox 2019, p. 17), putting her in an ethical dilemma. Ultimately, Muslim women lose out either way, by going against their faith or by excluding themselves, to the extent possible, from a society they are barred from participating in in a way that aligns with their mainstream beliefs. This has far-reaching consequences, impacting career development, family dynamics and, as we have already seen, broader societal participation as well as being detrimental to younger Muslims (e.g., there have been incidents where Muslim women who wear the ḥijāb have not being able to accompany their children on school trips (Breeden 2019)).

Similarly Islamophobic themes and undertones can also be observed in the nationwide banning of the Islamic face veil, the niqāb (Law No 2010-1192 of 11 October 2010).2 The relevant law prescribes a criminal sanction for the concealment of one’s face in public (Article 1). Like the 2004 Law, Muslims are not explicitly named, yet the legislative language unmistakably targets Muslims, by adopting a hostile stance towards their faith, again with gendered connotations. This is evident from the prejudicial formulation of the criminal offence established by the law, which amends Article 225-4-10 of the Criminal Code by stating that “[t]he act, by any person, of forcing one or several other persons to conceal the face, by means of threats, violence, coercion, abuse of authority or of power, by reason of their sex, shall be punishable by one year of imprisonment and a fine of 30,000 euros” (translated, emphasis added). The implication is that women are forced into wearing the niqāb, rather than it being a matter of personal choice. This contradicts empirical evidence that shows, for example, that 99 percent of American Muslims wear the ḥijāb out of personal choice (ISPU 2018). As for the niqāb, a study in the UK shows that when familial pressure is enacted, it is pressuring Muslim women to remove the niqāb, not the other way around (Inge 2016).

To be sure, the intent of this legislation has never been ambiguous. In the year preceding the ban, then-President Sarkozy publicly stated that the face veil was a sign of subservience and debasement—rather than devotion—that was not welcome in France (Chrisafis 2009). Meanwhile, the explanatory memorandum accompanying the law suggested that the legislative restrictions in question were necessary to ensure a “minimum requirement of civility” (S.A.S. v. France 2014, p. 25), thereby suggesting Islamic dress lacks the latter. To be clear, while there is no consensus on the niqāb being mandatory under Islamic law, it is a valid Muslim practice, and cannot reasonably be categorized as an “extreme” interpretation of the faith (Shakir 2011). In other words, it could be considered as part of Islamic orthopraxy despite its lower prevalence, which is why we have included it in our analysis.

Equally condescending and hostile statements were made in the context of the adoption of local bans on Muslim swimwear, which different municipalities began implementing in 2016. Notable instances occurred in Cannes and Nice, with the latter gaining international attention due to a photograph that went viral. The image depicted armed officers encircling a Muslim woman on the beach, coercing her into undressing (Said-Moorhouse 2016). The dress concerned, often referred to as a “burkini” despite being far removed from the burqa, is very similar to a wetsuit worn in combination with a head covering.

Islam makes no distinction between one’s ʿawrah on the beach or elsewhere, meaning that if a woman wishes to go for a swim, she would, from a religious perspective, need to cover everything apart from her face, hands and feet in a way that complies with Islamic orthopraxy. In other words, sporting a “burkini” would, assuming the above requirements are met, merely satisfy the minimum level of clothing required by the Islamic faith; women who cover in this way cannot reasonably be considered to be following a particularly strict or “extreme” interpretation of Islam. Yet, the adoption of various local “burkini bans” was accompanied by high levels of Islamophobic language across both local and national government.3 Then-Prime Minister Valls said the burkini was “based on the enslavement of women” and that “in the face of [this] provocation, the nation must defend itself” (Chrisafis 2016). Separately, he also made comments suggesting Muslim women needed France’s help to be protected against discrimination stemming from their own religion. Meanwhile, Thierry Migoule, the head of municipal services in Cannes, told Agence France-Presse the ban was on “ostentatious clothing which refers to an allegiance to terrorist movements which are at war with us” (Le Monde 2016, translated, emphasis added). Similarly, Cannes mayor David Lisnard, responsible for implementing the ban in the city, averred that “[t]he burkini is like a uniform, a symbol of Islamist extremism. This is why I am banning it for the summer” (Poirier 2016, translated, emphasis added). These latter comments yet again reflect the prevalent oxymoronic trope that paints Muslim women as both victims and aggressors at the same time.

The latest targeting of the Muslim community in France in the context of female dress was much more overt, moving away from the customary rhetoric of “neutrality”. As mentioned in our introduction, France adopted a national ban on the wearing of the ʿabāyah, a loose garment worn by many Muslims, at schools in August 2023. Muslim women who wear it do so to ensure modesty/non-revealing clothing, in line with their faith; there is no inherent political meaning behind it. Yet, drawing on the symbolism of Islamic violence, government spokesman Olivier Veran remarked that the ʿabāyah was “a political attack, a political sign” as well as an act of “proselytising” (Al Jazeera 2023), thereby rehearsing the century-old trope of Muslims as violent aggressors and a threat. As with the other restrictions discussed, this ban has also been upheld by France’s highest court, in a characteristically short judgment, on the basis of Article 1 of the 2004 Law (Conseil d’État 2023b, Decision No. 487891). Amnesty International has strongly criticized the ban, arguing the latter must be understood in the “context of relentless and decades long targeting of Muslims in France” (Amnesty International Press Release 2023).

To provide a further example of French limitations on dress, France’s Court of Cassation, the country’s second final appellate court, recently held that the Lille Bar Association was entitled to ban a French Muslim lawyer in private practice (i.e., not working for the state and thereby outside the remit of the relevant public service “neutrality laws”) from wearing the ḥijāb in court, reasoning that wearing it would jeopardize her independence as well as her own clients’ right to a fair trial (Cour de Cassation 2022). In other words, the lawyer’s covering of her head for religious reasons was equated to a threat to the attainment of justice, her choice being positioned in opposition to French values due to an ill-defined supposed allegiance to a different value system. This juxtaposition of the veil and French values is a long-standing phenomenon; in 2019, then-Education Minister Blanquer publicly stated that the ḥijāb was “not in agreement with our values” (France24 2019, emphasis added). No similar statements or public debates can be found in relation to Christians or Jews, or indeed any other religions.

5. Beyond Dress: Other Instances of State-Level Islamophobia Within a Wider Islamophobic Context

Female dress has been the most significantly impacted area of Islamophobic law-making, reflecting one of the most prevalent tropes associated with the religion. However, it would be inaccurate to suggest that the phenomenon described is one limited to one specific aspect of Muslim life. Indeed, other instances of law- and policy-making, taken together with derogatory statements by high-level public officials, reinforce the argument advanced in this paper: that the French state, more broadly, can be described as Islamophobic in the specific sense outlined here—that is, as opposing the mainstream orthopraxy of Islam as a religion.

The blueprint of the attempt to justify the French approach towards limiting manifestations of the Islamic faith is exemplified by the Anti-Separatism Law, formally known as the Law Reinforcing Respect for the Principles of the Republic (Law No 2021-1109 of 24 August 2021).4 The government suggests that the passing of this law was necessary because the French Republican values of freedom and equality, particularly between women and men, fraternity, and secularism were increasingly under attack by “separatist ideologies which try to fragment French society and destabilize democracy” (Ministry of Interior 2022, p. 4, translated). As with other pieces of legislation, the legal restrictions established are portrayed as being necessary to protect both the French Republic and French Muslims themselves against “Islamism” (Ministry of Interior 2022, p. 5, translated). The latter is often associated with adherence to standard Muslim orthopraxy, which is viewed with suspicion and apprehension, and deemed a sufficient threshold to warrant restrictions.

One case in point is the increasing problematization of the basic obligation on Muslims to pray five times a day. Indeed, daily prayer is singled out in a report published by the Senate as one of the acts that push Islam into the public space, there being a “growing segment of Muslims [which] also observes all theological precepts” (Senate Board of Inquiry 2020, section 1, translated). This is part of a broader emerging understanding, which holds that “Islamist radicalism”, a term which is rather elusively, is considered to include “behaviors that can be peaceful and that do not lead to violence” (ibid., translated). The enquiry, conducted by the upper house of the French Parliament, one of the state’s two legislative bodies, suggests that “Islamism” seeks to impose on Muslims and non-Muslims rigorous orthopraxy, clothing, food, and ritual practices, as well as a “standard of behaviour and relations between men and women, in order to separate them from the rest of the French population” (ibid., translated). In other words, the increasing adherence to standard Islamic prescriptions is seen as an existential threat to the French Republic. This characterization of observant Muslims acting in accordance with mainstream Islam as adherents to an ideology that is attempting to overthrow the French state has aptly been described as turning the term “radicalization” into a euphemism for “devout Muslim” (Amnesty International Press Release 2020).

In the above report’s summary, the Senate underscores other aspects of mainstream Islamic practice that are considered to require particular vigilance, such as the presence of ḥalāl butchers, which are viewed as vehicles that “separate” Muslims from the rest of the French population. The issue of the adherence to mainstream religious dietary requirements has been criticized elsewhere, with France’s Minister of the Interior Darmanin describing the availability of ḥalāl meat in French supermarkets as “shocking” (BFMTV 2020). Meanwhile, school canteens across the country have banned ḥalāl meat from their menus, it previously having been an option, invoking similar supposed grounds of said option causing disunity (Chrisafis 2015b). One might argue that similar restrictions apply to kosher meat, and that Darmanin’s comments were about “communitarian cuisine”, which includes ḥalāl and kosher meat, therefore affecting Muslims and Jews alike. This, one might argue, signifies an antipathy towards religion in the round as opposed to Muslims in particular. However, this suggestion can be rebutted relatively easily. First, the debates surrounding the adoption of these bans are squarely centered on Islam, and indeed often coincide with attacks on French soil perpetrated by Muslims (Jack 2015). Second, one must also consider that this measure, which statistically speaking affects Muslims in far greater numbers, sits within a wider context of a state sponsored vilification of Muslims without any parallels as far as other faith groups are concerned. Indeed, the above report problematizes other mainstream practices, such as Islamic dress (including the ḥijāb), sporting a beard, and making requests for prayer halls, all of which are portrayed as offensive.

In summary, what we are observing in France is a link between ordinary, often mandated Muslim practices and extremism, which is, in turn, associated with violence. Put differently, “the routine, normal behavior of (…) dress, religious observance, Islamic financial transaction, literature, etc.—indicates a ‘predisposition’ to commit terrorism (…). If they are sufficiently ‘Muslim’, they are sufficiently ‘predisposed’” (Downs 2012 quoted in Kumar 2012, p. 147). This is perhaps best exemplified by the recent case of Karim Benzema, the Muslim French footballer of Algerian decent, who, when he expressed sending prayers on social media to the people of Gaza who are being subjected to what more than 30 independent United Nations Human Rights experts, Holocaust and genocide scholars, and international human rights organizations describe as a genocide being committed by Israel (Albanese 2024; Amnesty International 2024; BBC 2024; OHCHR 2024; University Network for Human Rights 2024; Lemkin Institute for Genocide Prevention and Human Security 2023; Segal 2023), was charged with being a member of the Muslim Brotherhood—a euphemism for extremist—by the French interior minister. When asked to offer evidence for this claim, Darmanin’s office indicated that the footballer “proselytized on social media around the Muslim cult, such as fasting, prayer, pilgrimage to Mecca” (Randoux 2023, translated), three of the five pillars of the Muslim faith. Similarly, the famous former French rapper Mélanie Georgiades, known by her stage name Diam’s, was criticized as setting a bad example and having become a danger to young women when she converted to Islam and chose to wear the ḥijāb in public (Vertaldi 2012). Like Benzema, she was accused of proselytizing despite the pictures of her wearing the ḥijāb being published without her consent, thereby reinforcing the argument that any visible expression of mainstream Muslim practices is considered to have an ulterior, sinister motive.

The general nature of French public opposition to the adherence to mainstream Muslim practices is further reinforced by France’s official policy of “Systematic Obstruction” (“the Policy”), adopted in February 2018. The Policy, initiated by President Macron, represents a comprehensive governmental effort to monitor and regulate Muslim practices and civil participation. Specifically, the Policy mandates the singling out of specific legislative measures that have the potential to effectively impede expressions of Muslim identity and the political advancement of the Muslim community. Since 2019, in line with the Policy, France has conducted approximately 28,000 investigations to combat “political Islamism”—whose definition remains elusive. The Policy has resulted, according to Macron himself, in the temporary or permanent closure of 906 establishments, including mosques, Qur’ānic schools, businesses, and civil society organizations, and the confiscation of no less than 54 million euros (United States Commission on International Religious Freedom 2023, p. 72). The dissolution by the government of the Muslim human rights group, the Collective Against Islamophobia in France (“CCIF”) under the Policy is but one famous example of the Policy’s detrimental impact on France’s Muslim community. Prior to its dissolution by decree in December 2020, CCIF had played a key role in providing legal support to Muslims facing discrimination as well as documenting the discriminatory impact of France’s counterterrorism measures.

6. Laïcité Rather Than Islamophobia?

France’s approach towards minority groups is based on a specific rationale: equality before the law and being treated with dignity and respect is contingent upon assimilation (Castles 1995, pp. 297–98; Stovall 1993, p. 55). The French model of assimilation rejects identity-based classifications and requires minorities to “integrate” culturally into the national community. Purporting to require an adherence to “Republican universalist” values, in fact what is asked of those living in France is the adoption of beliefs and behaviors that align with majority ethnocentric preferences, at the expense of their own cultural or religious identities and practices.

The French attempt to “assimilate” is often masked by reference to the vague concept of laïcité. Indeed, the latter is so ambiguous that France’s highest court has struggled to define it (Conseil d’État 2004, Rapport Public). Originally, the term was understood to refer to the state’s commitment not to impose a particular religious framework, and that public policies ought not to be devised in reliance on religious beliefs (Idriss 2005). However, as early as the 1990s, it was observed that the interpretation of the term depended very much on the current socio-political context (Chadwick 1997). Interwoven with the ill-defined concept of laïcité is the idea of a “neutral” state of being and living, which increasingly demands that faith differences are altogether invisible. Today, laïcité is often understood by officials as the state being able to adopt means to maintain what it conceptualizes as “religious neutrality” at the expense of religious freedom (Idriss 2005, pp. 261–62).

We argue that laïcité is no answer to the charge of Islamophobia. To begin with, one can observe varied applications of the foundational legislative text instituting laïcité itself, Law No 9 of December 1905,5 Article 1 of which requires the separation of church and state, whereas Article 2 prohibits the state from recognizing or funding any religion. Up until 2023, only three Muslim private schools received government funding; the number has since been reduced to two following the revocation of state funding from Lycée Averroès, one of the country’s most acclaimed schools (Ferrara et al. 2024). Conversely, in 2021, 7045 out of the 7573 private schools (i.e., 93 percent) that received state funding were Catholic (Cour Des Comptes 2023, p. 29). Meanwhile, in Alsace, the French state not only funds the construction and maintenance of churches but also appoints clergymen and pays their salaries. France also recently doubled its funding for Christian schools in the Middle East, a move that sits uncomfortably with its official stance (Roméo 2022). These examples indicate that the French state’s opposition is not aimed at religion in a broad, general sense.

A direct comparison with how the sensibilities of other faith groups—especially those of the dominant Christian tradition—are treated further reinforces the argument that Islam, not religion in a general sense, is the target. For example, following the outcry over the theatrical performance referencing what the Christian tradition calls the Last Supper at the Paris Olympics, the organizers issued an apology to the Christian community, stating that the skit was never intended to cause offence (Giuffrida 2024). Meanwhile, while some of France’s public officials denounce the exercise of Muslim religious practice in public—Marine Le Pen likened Muslims praying in the street for congregational Friday prayer to the Nazi occupation of France, which was not deemed a hate crime by the French court (Chrisafis 2015a)—senior politicians have voiced their opposition to the taking down of Catholic statues, criticizing what they deemed an illegitimate invocation of Law No 9 of December 1905 (Bruna 2023). Similarly, a state funded retirement home’s decision not to accept a nun due to her religious attire was met with condemnation and insistence by public officials that this was a false interpretation of the country’s secularism laws (Kuruvilla 2019).

7. What Islamophobia Does for the French State

Thus far, approaching French Islamophobia from a Sunni Muslim legal perspective (approximately 90 percent of the world’s Muslims), we have shown that the French state’s agenda of reinterpreting core Islamically obligated practices as either optional or extreme—or both—are not genuinely aimed at upholding laïcité or state neutrality. Instead, these efforts are driven by an underlying ambition to eliminate the visible presence of Islam from French society. This drive, we argue, stems from an inherent hostility toward Islam, perceived as a subaltern, regressive, and socially detrimental moral framework. As such, the French effort bears an unsettling resemblance to Germany’s 19th century determination to “Christianise Judaism” in order to render it more palatable to anti-Semitic Christian Europe (Massad 2005), as well as Beijing’s more contemporary objective to create a “state-approved Islam” amid accusations of genocide in its repression campaign against the Uyghurs (Halpern 2022; Sweida-Metwally 2021). The question, then, is how this Islamophobia functions to serve the state’s broader interests.

The antagonism toward Islam is deeply rooted in the contradictions of France’s assimilationist mindset and universalist ideals. While post-WWII European universalist principles demand that freedom of worship be respected, France’s assimilationist approach requires that Muslims abandon their religious practices to be fully accepted into French society. Institutionalized Islamophobia, therefore, becomes a means for the state to resolve these seemingly irreconcilable tensions. By “reclassifying” mainstream religious practices as “extreme”, Islamophobia enables the state to frame ordinary Islamic expressions as incompatible with the values of the French Republic. This justifies the exclusion of any visible signs of Islam qua Islam from public life while, from the state’s perspective, sidestepping accusations of discrimination. By recasting mainstream Islam not as a religious orthopraxy but as an existential threat to the Republic’s values, the state justifies its suppression, simultaneously bypassing the universalist ideal of freedom of worship and reinforcing its assimilationist agenda. Laïcité, in this process, serves as a smokescreen to facilitate this “reclassification” strategy, the nature of which is Islamophobic.

To advance this agenda, institutionalized French Islamophobia operates through a two-step process that works in tandem. The first step involves redefining mainstream Islamic orthopraxy as extreme. As demonstrated above, here the state gradually shifts the boundary between mainstream and “extreme” religious practices to portray ordinary Islamic observances as radical. By misrepresenting mainstream Islam in this way, the state legitimizes its persecution while avoiding the constraints of universalist norms. This approach transforms standard practices into perceived threats, thus validating increasingly stringent measures against them. The second step involves constructing a “French Islam”. Here, the state simultaneously promotes a “sanitized” version of Islam that aligns with French cultural and secular ideals. This “Islam of France” is not an authentic expression of the faith but rather a manufactured, culturalized version that serves state interests by emphasizing compliance over genuine religious observance. Indeed, contrary to the demands of Islamic orthopraxy, this “top-down, state-enforced construction” (Easat-Daas 2017, p. 24) aims to promote a reimagined version of Islam “on the same wavelength with our age and the laws and values of the Republic” (quoted in Mas 2006, p. 596). France has pursued this objective through various institutions and initiatives, including think tanks (El Karoui 2016). Key to this strategy is the recent creation of the Forum de l’Islam de France. Members of this body are selected by the French government and designated as “representatives” of Muslims in France. This forum has been tasked, among other things, with producing guidelines for the Muslim community on managing places of worship. The paradox here is profound: while France claims to uphold a strict secularism, it actively intervenes to regulate and redefine Islamic orthopraxy. Indeed, there have even been calls directed at Muslim authorities to change Islamic scripture itself. In 2018, a manifesto—repeating the Islamophobic trope of an inherent anti-Semitism, and seemingly ignorant of the fundamental principles of Qur’ānic exegesis—signed by public officials, one former President and three former Prime Minsters, demanded that parts of the Qur’ān be declared obsolete (Hafez 2018).

The consequences of this state-driven Islamophobia are further accentuated by the fact that the collection of religious statistics, which could, for instance, reveal a more realistic impact of the state driven discrimination in areas such as housing, the labor market and educational achievements, is largely prohibited in France for fear of causing “disunity” (Naidoo 2019; Diémert 2005). In yet another paradox, the French state is causing division and discrimination in supposed pursuit of the opposite.

French Islamophobia, therefore, seeks one of two outcomes. If Muslims wish to avoid being labelled as “extremist”, they must “reform themselves” in a way that renders them largely non-practicing to the point that Islam plays little to no role in their lives, or, as is increasingly the case, they choose to emigrate from France to be able to live their faith peacefully (Esteves 2023). In essence, therefore, what the French government is asking of Muslims is to abandon the practice of most of their canon—becoming Muslim in name only—if they want to live free of harassment and be “tolerated” in France.

8. Conclusions

France’s Muslim population is increasingly subject to daily restrictions on its mainstream religious practices. For decades, Islam and Islamic practices have been scrutinized, othered, demeaned, and ultimately restricted through a series of legislative and executive measures, most of which have been particularly detrimental for Muslim women. As demonstrated throughout the paper, the French state exhibits a state-sponsored system of marginalization and exclusion, driven by Islamophobia, the latter of which must be conceptualized as including a deep-seated antipathy towards Islam as a religion.

We introduced a fresh perspective to this extensively analyzed topic by examining French Islamophobia from an Islamic Sunni legal perspective. In doing so, we demonstrated that a key mechanism is the characterization of mainstream mandatory Islamic practices as extreme. In effect, the French state stigmatizes mandated Islamic expressions, framing them as incompatible with French values and thus justifying their systematic marginalization from public life. The state then uses this vilification in an attempt to sidestep accusations of discrimination and infringements on universalist ideals that promote freedom of conscience to promote an alternative, a top-down corrupted version of the faith.

The French state’s virulent Islamophobic stance is both a product and a reflection of the broader climate of hostility pervasive within French society. The widespread aversion to Islam is underscored by a 2017 IPSOS poll, which found that 61 percent of French citizens believe Islam is incompatible with French society (Dille 2023), while an overwhelming 81 percent of French citizens support the ‘abāyah ban (Schofield et al. 2023). More recently, in 2024, the far-right party Rassemblement National, which campaigns on an explicitly anti-Islam platform, made history by securing 33 percent of the vote in the first round of parliamentary elections. As we have demonstrated, the convergence of these hostile attitudes towards adherents of Islam within both French society and its public institutions has—to paraphrase Hunter-Henin—effectively enabled the transformation of a “feeling of disdain towards Islam into French law” (Hunter-Henin 2012, p. 616).