Like putting a bodyboard leash on her ankle, this woman should enjoy the beach how she pleases. Right? Photo: The Hill
Let me start by saying that I personally find the recent banning of the “burkini” on certain French beaches a needless provocation. I would like, though, to suggest reasons for this that many Inertia readers might not have considered. From surf god Kelly Slater’s comments on Instagram to the media to people I spoke with during my August vacation in Southern California, most Americans see banning the modest beach covering chosen by certain Muslim women simply as a violation of personal rights.
For the French, though, it’s not that simple. To understand the cultural context, it’s important to start with a revered principle in French life, laïcité, a word that, revealingly, has no true equivalent in English, but is often translated as secularism. Growing out of a history of vicious religious wars and a royal power hand in glove with that of the Church, the term refers to the idea that religion is an entirely personal matter and should have no role whatsoever in public life. The French tend to associate religion more with the denial of rights than with their expression.
Unlike their American counterparts, French presidents never ask for prayer during crises. And, while Catholic and other religious private schools exist, they must teach a strictly controlled national curriculum, with clearly optional religious training only in a very secondary role. Underlying this position is the implicit belief on the part of most French people that religion amounts to a superstitious rejection of the Enlightenment principle of rationality on which the modern République was founded.
Understanding this, it’s perhaps easier to comprehend why external signs of religious belief tend to put off, and even viscerally offend, the French. And then, of course, there’s the question of women’s rights. One can interpret this narrowly to mean an individual woman’s right to wear what she wishes, but one can also extend the meaning to include obvious signs of extreme feminine submission imposed by male-dominated religious fundamentalism. With rare exceptions across a broad political spectrum – from the neo-fascist nationalist party to the far left – the French have chosen to stress the latter.
With the rise of radical Islam and the very real tragedies of Paris and Nice, it’s not surprising that those accustomed to seeing religion less as a solution for problems than as a problem itself would feel this way. Fear, racism, and nationalist resentments about immigration have, of course, further muddied an already complicated question. While the French conseil constitutionnel, or supreme court, seems to have recently brought the matter to an end with its rejection of the ban, the deeper issues it represents will surely resurface in the months ahead.
I support the court’s decision but not for the simple reason that clothes choice is a personal right. In fact, I agree with most people over here that, like the word burka it draws its first syllable from, the burkini is a symbol of male oppression. But I’m more uncomfortable with the idea of men of any sort telling women what to do, whether they be imams or policemen. And even more pertinently, I feel that imposing such a ban calls needless and counterproductive attention to what is in fact a marginal, even rare phenomenon. Doing so only aggravates the illness for which the burkini is just a symptom.
What the French should be doing is addressing the more substantial problems of a large Arab population that has for too long been economically excluded from wider French prosperity. Economic inequality is the real breeding ground for the virus of terrorism, and addressing it means fully examining the patient and not just applying a Band-Aid. But in France, as in America during this scarily weird electoral season, it’s often easier to ignore the real long-term problems and instead look for immediate scapegoats. Wherever you find them, including the beach.
