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INTRODUCTION
On March 15, 2004, the French government passed a law that
banned the wearing of “conspicuous signs” of religious afﬁliation
in public schools. Article 1 is the key provision:
In public elementary, middle and high schools, the wearing
of signs or clothing which conspicuously manifest
students’ religious afﬁliations is prohibited. Disciplinary
procedures to implement this rule will be preceded by a
discussion with the student.
There is also an explanation of what counts as “conspicuous”:
The clothing and religious signs prohibited are conspicuous
signs such as a large cross, a veil, or a skullcap. Not
regarded as signs indicating religious afﬁliation are discreet
signs, which can be, for example, medallions, small
crosses, stars of David, hands of Fatima, or small Korans.
Although the law applied to Jewish boys in skullcaps and
Sikh boys in turbans, as well as to anyone with a large cross
around his or her neck, it was aimed primarily at Muslim girls
wearing headscarves (hijab in Arabic; foulard in French). The
other groups were included to undercut the charge of discrimi­
2 
nation against Muslims and to comply with a requirement that
such laws apply universally. The headscarf, or, as it was soon to
be referred to almost exclusively, the veil (voile), was considered
inimical to French custom and law because it violated the separation
of church and state, insisted on differences among citizens
in a nation one and indivisible, and accepted the subordination
of women in a republic premised on equality. For many
supporters of the law, the veil was the ultimate symbol of Islam’s
resistance to modernity.
France is not the only country to worry about girls or
women in headscarves. Similar legislation has been proposed
in Belgium, Australia, Holland, and Bulgaria. In Turkey, which
presents a different set of issues—a secular state since 1923
(modeled on the French republic), it has a majority Muslim
population—a ban applies to elected ofﬁcials, civil servants,
and school and university students. In Bulgaria, which has long
had a signiﬁcant Muslim minority, a law to prohibit headscarves
is still being discussed, but its proponents seem driven
at least in part by a desire to be acceptable “Europeans.” In
Germany, most of whose Muslims come from Turkey, many
regional states prohibit teachers (though not students) from
wearing the hijab. The European Court of Human Rights has
weighed in on the matter too, ruling in a Turkish case that governments
are within their rights when they prohibit headscarves
in schools. This ruling is meant to apply to all European
countries, not only to Turkey. A dissenting note has been
sounded by the UN committee charged with implementing
CEDAW (the convention outlawing all forms of discrimination
against women): in 2005, it expressed concern about the
effects of such bans on women’s access to schools and uni­
3Introduction
versities. Still, there seems to be a consensus about the meaning
of the headscarf and the challenge to secular democracy
that it represents, even though the girls and adult women who
wear them are decidedly a minority within diasporic Muslim
populations.
Indeed, the numbers do not explain the attention being paid
to veils. In France, just before the law was passed, only 14 percent
of Muslim women polled wore the hijab, although 51 percent
declared that they actively practiced their religion.1 In the
Netherlands, which proposed outlawing the burqa (the fullbody
covering worn by women), it is estimated that only ﬁfty
to one hundred women wear it, out of a population of about a
million Muslims.2 Similarly, in England, where the niqab,
which covers a woman’s entire face except for her eyes, was the
focus of controversy in 2006, the number of wearers is tiny,
though BBC news reported an increase in sales of niqabs in reaction
to ex–foreign secretary Jack Straw’s proposal to ban
them. Banning the headscarf or veil is a symbolic gesture; for
some European nations it is a way of taking a stand against Islam,
declaring entire Muslim populations to be a threat to national
integrity and harmony. The radical acts of a few politically
inspired Islamists have become a declaration of the intent
of the many; the religious practices of minorities have been
taken to stand for the “culture” of the whole; and the notion of
a ﬁxed Muslim “culture” obscures the mixed sociological realities
of adaptation and discrimination experienced by these immigrants
to the West.
My question in this book is, why the headscarf? What is it
about the headscarf that makes it the focus of controversy, the
sign of something intolerable? The simple answers offered by
4 
politicians who pass the laws and some feminists who support
them is that the veil is an emblem of radical Islamist politics.
In the words of the Australian Brownyn Bishop, “it has become
the icon, the symbol of the clash of cultures, and it runs
much deeper than a piece of cloth.” In addition, it is widely argued
that veils stand for the oppression of women. So insists
Margaret De Cuyper of Holland: “Women have lived for too
long with clothes and standards decided for them by men; this
[the removal of the veil] is a victory.”3
These answers don’t explain enough. Headscarves (or veils)
are worn by only a small fraction of Muslim women, the vast
majority of whom have assimilated in some way or another to
the Western values and dress of the countries in which they
now live. Moreover, veils are not the only visible sign of difference
that attaches to religious Muslims, not the only way a religious/political
identity can be declared. Men often have distinctive
appearances (beards, loose clothing) and behavior
(prayers, food preferences, aggressive assertions of religious
identity tied to activist politics), yet these are not considered to
be as threatening as the veil and so are not addressed by legal
prohibition. The laws do not go on to challenge the structures
of gender inequality in codes of Muslim family law; these
codes have been allowed to stand in some Western European
countries, and are left to religious authorities to enforce, even if
they are not the law of the host country. Even more confounding,
concern with gender inequality seems limited to Muslims
and does not extend to French or German or Dutch practices
that also permit the subordination of women. It is as if patriarchy
were a uniquely Islamic phenomenon!
What is it about the status of women in Islam that invites
5Introduction
special remedial attention? Why has the veil been singled out
as an icon of the intolerable difference of Muslims? How has
insistence on the political signiﬁcance of the veil obscured
other anxieties and concerns of those obsessed with it? How
has the veil become a way of addressing broad issues of ethnicity
and integration in France and in Western Europe more
generally? To answer these questions we cannot take at face
value the simple oppositions offered by those who would ban
it: traditional versus modern, fundamentalism versus secularism,
church versus state, private versus public, particular versus
universal, group versus individual, cultural pluralism versus national
unity, identity versus equality. These dichotomies do not
capture the complexities of either Islam or “the West.” Rather,
they are polemics that in fact create their own reality: incompatible
cultures, a clash of civilizations.
A number of studies argue convincingly that the Islamic
headscarf is a modern, not a traditional, phenomenon, an effect
of recent geopolitical and cultural exchanges that are global in
scale. The French sociologist Olivier Roy, for example, describes
the current religiosity of Muslim populations in Europe
as both a product of and a reaction to westernization. The new
Islamic religiosity, he maintains, parallels similar quests for
new forms of spirituality in the secular environments of the
West. “Islam,” he writes, “cannot escape the New Age of religion
or choose the form of its own modernity.”4 I would add
that while present-day Islam is undeniably “modern,” there is
not one universalizing form of its modernity, and it is especially
the differences that matter. I agree with Roy that today’s
Islam is not a throwback to earlier practices, nor does it emanate
from bounded traditions or identiﬁable communities.
6 
There is not, Roy insists, a single Muslim “culture” which corresponds
to the sociological and demographic proﬁles of the
immigrant populations now residing in Europe. Indeed Islam
is historically decentralized; unlike Catholicism, with its headquarters
in Rome and a single ﬁgure of authority at its head,
Islamic theology is articulated through continuing debate and
interpretation, much like Jewish theology. Moreover, there is
no single theology, but a plurality of them. Among Muslim
immigrant populations, there are, to be sure, attempts to establish
group identiﬁcations, but these are voluntary, Roy says,
since they do not correspond any longer to ﬁxed places—territories,
states—or even to institutions like the family. In fact,
voluntary groupings tend to divide generations; religiosity is
one way for children to declare their independence from family
constraints. It is also a way for dominated groups to insist on
the legitimacy of their religion. The contexts within which
populations assert Islamic identity need to be speciﬁed. What
does establish Muslims as a single community, a “virtual”
community in Roy’s description of it, is “speciﬁc legislation”
that serves to “objectify” them.5 Various judicial and legislative
decrees in Western Europe, prominently among them the
French law banning Islamic headscarves, are examples of this
objectiﬁcation.
The intense debates about passing such laws serve another
purpose as well: they offer a defense of the European nationstates
at a moment of crisis. As membership in the European
Union threatens national sovereignty (borders, passports, currency,
ﬁnance) and calls for an overhaul of social policy (the
welfare state, labor market regulation, gender relations), as
globalization weakens the standing of domestic markets, and
7Introduction
as former colonial subjects seek a permanent place in the
metropole, the question of national identity has loomed large
in Western Europe. Depending on particular national histories,
the idealization of the nation has taken various forms. In
France it has taken the form of an insistence on the values and
beliefs of the republic, said to be a realization of the principles
of the Enlightenment in their highest, most enduring form.
This image of France is mythical; its power and appeal rests, to
a large degree, on its negative portrayal of Islam. The objectiﬁcation
of Muslims as a ﬁxed “culture” has its counterpart in the
mythologizing of France as an enduring “republic.” Both are
imagined to lie outside history—antagonists locked in eternal
combat.
This dual construction, France versus its Muslims, is an operation
in virtual community building. It is the result of a sustained
polemic, a political discourse. I understand discourse to
refer to interpretation, to the imposition of meaning on phenomena
in the world; it is mutable and contested, and so the
stakes are high. Discourse is an important way of characterizing
what I am studying; I use the term to counter the notion of
culture that was employed in the debates. Culture in those usages
implied objectively discernible values and traditions that
were homogeneous and immutable; complexity, politics, and
history were absent. Culture was said to be the cause of the differences
between France and its Muslims. In fact, I argue that
this idea of culture was the effect of a very particular, historically
speciﬁc political discourse. Creating the reality one wants
requires strong argument and the discrediting, if not silencing,
of alternative points of view. Outlawing the veil, even though it
was worn by very few students in French public schools, was an
8 
attempt to enact a particular version of reality, one which insisted
on assimilation as the only way for Muslims to become
French. The presentation of what it meant to be “French” required
suppressing not only the critics who were themselves
French (and not Muslim) but also the Muslims (many of
whom were French citizens) who offered conﬂicting evidence
about the meanings of their religious identiﬁcations and of the
place of the headscarf in them.
The study of political discourse is best undertaken through
close readings of arguments advanced in their speciﬁc political
and historical contexts. Without history we aren’t able to grasp
the implications of the ideas being advanced; we don’t hear the
resonances of words; we don’t see all of the symbols contained–—for
example—in a piece of cloth that serves as a veil.
For that reason this book is centered on the politics of headscarf
controversies in France—a country whose history I have
been studying for almost forty years. There are, of course,
insights I offer that have more general application. These insights
are based on my belief that we need to recognize and negotiate
differences, even those that seem irreducible—an outlook
many French commentators would dismiss as American
and multiculturalist (synonymous in their view).To be sure, my
ideas are an expression of my political outlook, but it’s not so
much an American way of thinking as it is a particular understanding
of what democracy requires in the present context.
There are many Americans who do not share my views, just as
there is a signiﬁcant minority in France, many of whom I cite
in the course of this book, who do share them.
These reﬂections about processes of politics and the handling
of differences are not conﬁned to national contexts; they
9Introduction
have wider application. The objectiﬁcation of Muslims; the attribution
of their differences to a single, inassimilable culture;
the idea that a secular way of life is being threatened by “fundamentalists”—all
this is evident in the reaction of Western European
leaders to Muslim immigrants in their midst. Still, the
speciﬁc ways in which these ideas are expressed and implemented
as policy differ according to national political histories.
These histories are critical for our understanding of the “Muslim
problem” in Europe. For that reason I have conﬁned my
analyses to France, not only to gain the depth this issue requires,
but also to highlight the local nature of the imagined
general conﬂict between “Islam” and “the West.” It is, of
course, true that there is a global dimension to these conﬂicts,
the more so as the Middle East becomes a central strategic
concern of American foreign policy, the site for the enduring
“war against terrorism,” and as identiﬁcation with a transnational
Islam becomes the basis for rallying political opposition
to the West in general and to the United States in particular.
But, I argue, the situation of Muslim immigrants in Western
European countries can be fully grasped only if the local context
is taken into account. So, for example, a nation’s policy for
naturalizing immigrants plays a part in its reception of Muslims;
the experience of Pakistanis in England differs from that
of Algerians in France; that of Turks in Germany is different
yet again, while Bulgaria’s Muslims are not immigrants at all.
We don’t learn very much by lumping all of these cases together
into one Muslim “problem.” In fact, we exacerbate the
problem we seek to address. I think that exactly this kind of
heightening of difﬁculties was produced in France by the ways
in which politicians, public intellectuals, and the media re­
10 
sponded to the fact of a growing population of Muslim “immigrants”
in their midst—immigrants whose diversities were reduced
to a single difference that was then taken to be a threat
to the very identity of the nation.
This book is a study of the political discourse of those
French republicans who insisted that the only way to deal with
what they perceived to be the threat of Islamic separatism was
to ban the headscarf. There are not many Muslim voices in this
book, in part because there weren’t many to be heard during
the debates. The headscarf controversies were largely an affair
of those who deﬁned themselves as representatives of a true
France, with North Africans, Muslims, and “immigrants” consigned
to the periphery. I do consider the many meanings the
veil may have for Muslims and arguments among them about
how and whether to assimilate to French standards, but only
brieﬂy and then as a way of highlighting the inconsistencies of
French characterizations of them. This is not a book about
French Muslims; it is about the dominant French view of them. I
am interested in the way in which the veil became a screen
onto which were projected images of strangeness and fantasies
of danger—danger to the fabric of French society and to the
future of the republican nation. I am also interested in the way
in which the representation of a homogeneous and dangerous
“other” secured a mythic vision of the French republic, one and
indivisible. I explore the many factors feeding these fantastic
representations: racism, postcolonial guilt and fear, and nationalist
ideologies, including republicanism, secularism, abstract
individualism, and, especially, French norms of sexual conduct
taken to be both natural and universal. Indeed, I argue that the
representation of Muslim sexuality as unnatural and oppressive
11Introduction
when compared to an imagined French way of doing sex intensiﬁed
objections to the veil, grounding these in indisputable
moral and psychological conviction.
In France many of those who supported a ban on headscarves
insisted they were protecting a nation conceived to be one and
indivisible from the corrosive effects of communautarisme
(which I have translated as “communalism”). By that term, they
do not mean exactly what Americans do by “communitarianism.”
In France communautarisme refers to the priority of group
over national identity in the lives of individuals; in theory there
is no possibility of a hyphenated ethnic/national identity—one
belongs either to a group or to the nation. (In fact, of course,
there are French Muslims who were recognized as such at the
end of the Algerian War, but that history was conveniently forgotten
in the outburst of republican myth-making associated
with the celebration of the bicentennial of the French Revolution
in 1989.) American multiculturalism was offered negatively
as the embodiment of communalism. Consisting of a
multiplicity of cultures, riven by ethnic conﬂict and group
identity politics, the United States is depicted as unable to
grant individuals the equality that is their natural right. That
equality is achieved, in French political theory, by making one’s
social, religious, ethnic, and other origins irrelevant in the public
sphere; it is as an abstract individual that one becomes a
French citizen. Universalism—the oneness, the sameness of all
individuals—is taken to be the antithesis of communalism.
And yet, paradoxically, it is a universalism that is particularly
12 
French. If America permits the coexistence of many cultures
and grants the legitimacy (and political inﬂuence) of hyphenated
identities (Italian-American, Irish-American, AfricanAmerican,
etc.), France insists on assimilation to a singular
culture, the embrace of a shared language, history, and political
ideology. The ideology is French republicanism. Its hallmarks
are secularism and individualism, the linked concepts that
guarantee all individuals equal protection by the state against
the claims of religion and any other group demands.
French universalism insists that sameness is the basis for
equality. To be sure, sameness is an abstraction, a philosophical
notion meant to achieve the formal equality of individuals before
the law. But historically it has been applied literally: assimilation
means the eradication of difference. That is why the
French census makes no record of the religion, ethnicity, or national
origin of its population; such ﬁgures would represent
France as fractured and divided, not—as it claims to be—a
united, singular entity.The ideal of a nation one and indivisible
harkens back to the French Revolution of 1789, which (after
several years of bloody conﬂict) replaced a feudal corporate
regime, characterized by hierarchies of privilege based on birth
and wealth, with a republic whose citizens were deemed free
and equal individuals. At the time, not all members of the population
were considered individuals—women and slaves lacked
the requisite qualities—but the ideal stood and became part of
the national heritage, inspiring the claims of excluded groups
for equal rights. I will talk more about the dilemma faced by
excluded groups claiming the rights of individuals in chapters 2
and 4. Here I want simply to underscore the idea that French
individualism achieves its universalist status by positing the
13Introduction
sameness of all individuals, a sameness that is achieved not
simply by swearing allegiance to the nation but by assimilating
to the norms of its culture. The norms of the culture, of course,
are anything but abstract, and this has been the sticking point
of French republican theory. Abstraction allows individuals to
be conceived as the same (as universal), but sameness is measured
in terms of concrete ways of being (as Frenchness). And
ascriptions of difference, conceived as irreducible differences,
whether based on culture or sex or sexuality, are taken to preclude
any aspiration to sameness. If one has already been labeled
different on any of these grounds, it is difﬁcult to ﬁnd a
way of arguing that one is or can become the same.
In the last two decades or so, this contradiction has been exposed
and challenged. The requirement of assimilation has
come under attack by groups demanding recognition of their
difference. Since women, homosexuals, and people of North
African origin (stubbornly referred to as immigrants long after
many had become citizens) were discriminated against as
groups, it was as groups, they argued, that they must receive
their rights—or as individuals whose difference from the norm
is acknowledged and respected. The leaders of the feminist
mouvement pour la parité insisted that discrimination against
women in politics would end only when it was understood that
all individuals came in one of two sexes. Sex, unlike ethnicity
or religion, they argued, was universal. It divided all humans
and so could not be abstracted: even abstract individuals were
sexed. These feminists called for (and won) a law requiring
equal numbers of women and men on the ballots for most
elected political ofﬁces. The leaders of the gay and lesbian
movement demanded the same rights for homosexual as for
14 
straight couples, including the right to be considered families.
They gained the equivalent of our domestic partnership contracts,
but not access to adoption or reproductive technology.
In effect, the law implies that families can be formed only by
two individuals of the opposite sex—the cultural norm of
the heterosexual nuclear family must remain in place. North
Africans, many of whom are Muslims, claimed that the only
way to reverse discrimination against them was to consider
their religion on a par with that of Christians and Jews. If individuals
with those commitments could be considered fully
French, so could Muslims, even if the requirements of their religious
beliefs led them to pray and dress differently—women
wearing hijabs, for example. There was, of course, great contest
about what these beliefs entailed, including whether the Koran
even required women to cover their heads. There was also disagreement
about the wisdom of passing a law banning the
foulard; many Muslims told pollsters they did not oppose such
a law even as they protested the discrimination they felt it
would encourage. But whatever the controversies were among
Muslims, what united them as a group was the desire to be
considered “fully French” without having to give up on the religious
beliefs, communal ties, or other forms of behavior by
which they variously identiﬁed themselves.
The reaction of politicians and republican ideologists to
these demands for the recognition of difference was swift and
uncompromising. They insisted that the way things had always
been done was the right way and that the challenges from
groups such as women, homosexuals, and immigrants would
undermine the coherence and unity of the nation, betraying its
revolutionary heritage. Even as they granted that discrimina­
15Introduction
tion might exist and allowed some measures to correct it, they
did so in ways that would not endanger the bottom line: the
need to maintain the unity of the nation by refusing to recognize
difference. After much debate, it was established that the
exception was sexual difference. Embodied in the nuclear family,
it was considered to be a natural difference, the foundation
not only of French culture but of all civilized cultures.
As for Muslims, their claims were rebuffed on the ground
that satisfying them would undermine laïcité, the French version
of secularism, which its apologists offer as so uniquely
French as to be untranslatable. Any word has speciﬁc connotations
according to its linguistic context, of course. Nevertheless,
laïcité, the French version of “secularism,” is no less translatable
than any other term. It is part of the mythology of the
specialness and superiority of French republicanism—the same
mythology that paradoxically offers French universalism as different
from all others—to insist that laïcité can only be used in
its original tongue.6 Laïcité means the separation of church
and state through the state’s protection of individuals from the
claims of religion. (In the United States, in contrast, secularism
connotes the protection of religions from interference by the
state.) Muslim headscarves were taken to be a violation of
French secularism and, by implication, a sign of the inherent
non-Frenchness of anyone who practiced Islam, in whatever
form. To be acceptable, religion must be a private matter; it
must not be displayed “conspicuously” in public places, especially
in schools, the place where the inculcation of republican
ideals began. The ban on headscarves established the intention
of legislators to keep France a uniﬁed nation: secular, individualist,
and culturally homogeneous.They vehemently denied the
16 
objection that cultural homogeneity might also be racist. Yet,
as I show in chapter 2, there is a long history of French racism
in which North African Muslims are the target. The veil plays
a particularly important part in that story.
One of the fascinating aspects of the headscarf controversy was
the way in which words became conﬂated with one another.
Muslim women in France wear what they refer to as a hijab; in
French the word is foulard; in English, headscarf. Very quickly,
this head covering was referred to in the media as a veil (voile),
with the implications that the entire body and face of its
wearer were hidden from view.7 As I will argue in chapter 5,
the conﬂation of headscarf and veil, the persistent reference to
hidden faces when, in fact, they were perfectly visible, was a
way of expressing deep anxiety about the ways in which Islam
is understood to handle the relations of the sexes. It was also a
way of insisting on the superiority of French gender relations,
indeed, of associating them with higher forms of civilization.
Although I do not want to reproduce that anxiety (rather I
want to analyze it), I have found it impossible to make a rigorous
or consistent distinction in my own terminology. My using
“veil” and “headscarf” interchangeably reﬂects the way in which
the words were deployed in the debates.
A similar set of conﬂations came with the word Muslim, a
religious identiﬁcation often (though not always) signiﬁed for
women by the veil. Although it designated followers of the religion
of Islam, “Muslim” was also used to refer to all immigrants
of North African origin, whatever their religion. Sociol­
17Introduction
ogist Riva Kastoryano tells us that since at least the 1980s “immigrant,”
in France, has been synonymous with North African.
Moreover, little distinction is made between North Africans,
Arabs, and Muslims, although not all North Africans are Arabs,
not all Arabs are Muslims, and not all Muslims in France come
from North Africa. In the political discourse of French republicans,
however, the different meanings are hard to distinguish,
the terms bleed one into another. As with “veil,” “Muslim”
evokes associations of both inferiority and menace that go beyond
the objective deﬁnition of the word itself: “Muslims” are
“immigrants,” foreigners who will not give up the signs of their
culture and/or religion. Invariably, too, the religion they are
said to espouse is painted as “fundamentalist,” with incontestable
claims not only on individual comportment but on the
organization of the state. In this discourse the veil denotes
both a religious group and a much larger population, a whole
“culture” at odds with French norms and values. The symbolism
of the veil reduces differences of ethnicity, geographic origin,
and religion to a singular entity, a “culture,” that stands in
opposition to another singular entity, republican France.
For a small piece of cloth, the veil is heavy with meanings
for French republicans who are worried about schools and immigrants,
freedom and terrorism. Having an opinion about it
serves to establish one’s credentials on the heady topics of individualism,
secularism, and the emancipation of women—it is
an ideological litmus test. Banning the veil also became a substitute
solution for a host of pressing economic and social issues;
the law on headscarves seemed as if it could wipe away
the challenges of integration posed for policymakers by former
colonial subjects (most often perceived as poor and beyond re­
18 
demption even if some were established members of the middle
class). In a fascinating way, the veil in republican discourse
served to cover a body of intractable domestic issues even as it
revealed the anxieties associated with them. Getting beyond
that veiling is the purpose of this book.
The answer to the question “why the veil?” then is complicated.
Or perhaps a better word is “overdetermined.” There
were many reasons why French policymakers focused on the
veil, even as they emphasized just one (the protection of
women’s equality from Islamist patriarchs). These reasons went
beyond defending modernity against traditionalism, or secularism
against the inroads of religion, or republicanism against
terrorists. In this book I explore these reasons by treating separately
the topics of racism, secularism, individualism, and sexuality,
although all four were actually intertwined. To make
sense of the complex fabric of French republican discourse on
the veil, though, I have had to separate its interwoven strands.
Each strand contributed to drawing and fortifying a boundary
around an imagined France, one whose reality was secured by
excluding dangerous others from the nation. At the same time,
the political discourse of embattled republicanism created a
ﬁrmer community of identiﬁcation for Muslims than might
otherwise have existed. The veil became a rallying point—
something to defend as a common value—even for those who
did not wear it.
My insistence on history and complexity is not just a scholarly
indulgence; it has urgent political implications. Simple oppositions
not only blind us to the realities of the lives and beliefs
of others but create alternative realities that affect our own
self-understanding. A worldview organized in terms of good
19Introduction
versus evil, civilized versus backward, morally upright versus
ideologically compromised, us versus them, is one we inhabit
at our risk. It leaves no room for self-criticism, no way to think
about change, no way to open ourselves to others. By refusing
to accept and respect the difference of these others we turn
them into enemies, producing that which we most feared
about them in the ﬁrst place.This has happened in France and,
with local variation, elsewhere in the West. Indeed, the French
law seems to have inspired other countries to follow suit in
what is fast becoming a consolidation of sides in a clash between
“Islam” and “the West.” The inability to separate the
political radicalism based in the religion of a few from the religious
and/or customary practices, or simply the ethnic difference,
of the many has alienated disaporic Muslim populations,
even those who want nothing more than to become full citizens
of the lands in which they live. And it has secured “us” in
an inﬂexible and thus dangerously defensive posture in relation
to “them.”
I have not used the word toleration to talk about how we
should deal with those radically different from ourselves because,
following political theorist Wendy Brown, I think toleration
implies distaste (her word is aversion) for those who are
tolerated.8 I want to insist instead that we need to acknowledge
difference in ways that call into question the certainty and superiority
of our own views. Instead of assimilation we need to
think about the negotiation of difference: how can individuals
and groups with different interests live together? Is it possible
to think about difference non-hierarchically? On what common
ground can differences be negotiated? Perhaps it is the
common ground of shared difference, as French philosopher
20 
Jean-Luc Nancy has suggested. Nancy argues that it is wrong
to think of community as a shared essence, a common being,
because that “is in effect the closure of the political.” Instead,
he says, we must recognize that we all share “being-in-common,”
which “has nothing to do with communion, with fusion
into a body, into a unique and ultimate identity.”9 Common
being presupposes sameness while “being-in-common” says
only that we all exist and that our very existence is deﬁned by
our difference from others. Paradoxically, it’s difference that is
common to us all.
We must stop acting as if historically established communities
were eternal essences. This is one of the challenges of our
time—one that French leaders were unwilling and unable to
meet. Their story is for me an object lesson in politics, an example
of the misuse of history and the blinding effects of hysteria.
We need to think about the limits of their approach in
order to develop alternatives to it—alternatives that will, of
course, vary according to national context, but that will in each
case allow for the recognition and negotiation of difference in
ways that realize the promises of democracy.