Separation of Shul and State

It isn’t just antisemitism in France. It’s an anti-religious fervor sweeping the nation, causing people to tuck in their crosses, stars and crescent moons and save religious practice for the home. Sure, there are places of worship dotting the landscape — France is beloved for its astounding Catholic architectural works, historical masterpieces such as the Notre Dame Cathedral and the Sacre Coeur Basilica. Yet in schools or marketplaces today, religious apparel and prayer are seldom to be found. What happened to the once proudly Catholic nation?

In 498 AD, with the baptism of King Clovis, France was crowned “eldest daughter of the church,” for it was the first nation to be crowned Catholic after the fall of the Western Roman Empire. For centuries, Catholicism was its state religion, and France was linked intimately with the Pope. However, beginning in the mid-1500s and exacerbated by the 1789 French Revolution, religious conflicts tormented the beleaguered nation until the Catholic Church was eventually persecuted by the state in 1790. Though Catholicism became the state religion once again during the transfer of power after Napoleon in the 1814 Bourbon Restoration, the renewed bond was short lived: a law passed in 1905 separated church and state once again, and it still remains in effect today.

The rift between religion and state has since become total. Unlike in the United States, religion in France is hidden behind closed doors. Rather than promoting religion in public spheres, France upholds laïcité, its version of secularism. In schools and other public places all over the country, posters with a guide to laïcité adorn walls, instructing its citizens to save religion for their homes.

I joined a Jewish family for dinner one night during my recent stay in Paris. Benjamin, one of two sons, had just returned home from studying Gemara (a commentary on the Jewish Oral Torah) to join his parents, his sister Justine, his brother Raphael, and me at the table. “Benjamin is becoming more frum,” Raphael told me, his parents chiming in to describe how Benjamin now keeps the requirements of the Sabbath, despite the rest of his family not doing so.

I studied Benjamin at the table. He appeared at once wise and questioning, confident in his devotion to Judaism but uncertain as to the extent of his practice. I noticed that he was not wearing a kippah, or yarmulke, his brown curls unmatted atop his head.

A bit of multilingual small talk commenced. I spoke with everyone except for Benjamin in English; the family spoke some rapid French amongst themselves, translating for Benjamin, and I tried a bit of my broken Hebrew on Benjamin, who understood it perfectly. After a few minutes of careful conversation, I decided to get right to the point, asking Benjamin why he was not wearing a kippah if he was indeed becoming more religious.

Benjamin replied in a multilingual mix, explaining that in France, it is dangerous for people to outwardly show their religion. Neither he, nor any of his family members, has faced persecution for being Jewish in France. Nevertheless, they do not want to take the risk, for they know of people – particularly Jews and Muslims – who have been religiously persecuted. Benjamin said that only extremely religious people wear kippot, hijabs, and other religious garments in France, and that he is not quite frum enough to put his life on the line for a head covering.

[pullquote]He is not quite frum enough to put his life on the line for a head covering.[/pullquote]

Separation of religion and state in France applies to people of all faiths, but for Jews and Muslims the consequences of displaying religion in public are more extreme. In 2010, France instituted its “burqa ban,” preventing Muslim women from wearing the traditional full body covering outside of the home. Additionally, as of 2016, over 30 French towns had banned burkinis, the swimsuit equivalent of a burqa, on public beaches.

My Christian friend Natasha Maters, a US resident and self-professed liberal who currently studies at Sciences Po in Reims, France, has experienced firsthand anti-religious feelings in France, specifically in relation to the burqa. She finds the burqa ban to be “contrary to [France’s] whole culture and spirit,” which promotes equality and personal freedoms. The ban is “less about religion and more a threat to liberalism and openness,” Natasha explained.

However, she finds burqa wearing itself to be a barrier to connection, contradicting liberalism and openness, and limiting women’s freedoms. “I want people to be able to express their religious beliefs, but I think there is a line,” she said.

This line is drawn at the point of danger. For safety reasons, France banned wearing ski masks and motorcycle helmets in regular public spaces, just as it did burqas. Yet while Natasha opposes burqa wearing, she wishes that France did not have to enact a law to prevent them from being donned; the law is may be a form of religious persecution.

Jews, too, face persecution in France, though of a slightly different nature. In April 2017, Dr. Sarah Halimi, a retired kindergarten teacher, was murdered and thrown off her balcony in Paris, as her assailant shouted “Allahu Akbar” (God is the greatest). In August 2016, a Muslim man was charged with “attempted murder based on the victim’s appearance belonging to a race or religion” after attacking a kippah-wearing Jew on the streets of Strasbourg. And in 2015, in one of the deadliest anti-Semitic shootings in France, a terrorist who had pledged allegiance to ISIS murdered 4 people and held 15 hostage in a Kosher food supermarket. These are not isolated incidents — several hundred anti-Semitic acts ranging from car attacks to stabbings are carried out in France each year, and they have terrorized French Jews for the past several decades.

[pullquote]These are not isolated incidents — several hundred anti-Semitic acts ranging from car attacks to stabbings are carried out in France each year, and they have terrorized French Jews for the past several decades.[/pullquote]

This is why Benjamin and so many others opt not to wear kippot; the fear of being attacked or killed is real and horrifying. While in Paris, I travelled with my friend Omri, who, like Benjamin, is in the process of becoming frum. In his home state of California, Omri openly wears his kippah and tallis katan, a version of the traditional Jewish prayer shawl meant for everyday wear. However, in Paris, Omri felt compelled to cover his kippah with a beanie and tuck in the strings of his tallis katan, fearful that he would otherwise be attacked.

This 21st century antisemitism is a shocking departure from treatment of Jews in the middle of the 20th century. In the first two decades following World War II, France welcomed Jewish immigrants, many of whom came from northern Africa, seeking refuge. The French government also passed laws to protect Jews in France and reduce antisemitism. However, after the Six Day War in 1967, during which Israel conquered considerable territory in the Middle East and triumphed over its hostile Arab neighbors, antisemitism in France rose. It continued to escalate in the 1970s and 1980s with the French anti-Zionist campaign, while the 1990s saw an increase in Holocaust denial.

Unrest deepened at the turn of the century. The Second Intifada — the 2000-2005 Palestinian uprising against Israel — escalated religious tensions in France, particularly between Jews and Muslims. Jews increasingly began to identify with the Israeli cause and many Muslims with the Palestinian cause. Ironically, at the beginning of the 21st century, France was home to the third-highest population of Jews in the world, after only Israel and the United States. However, the rate of Aliyah (immigration to Israel) of French Jews has since skyrocketed due to an increase in anti-Semitic verbal and physical attacks, surpassing the Aliyah rate of American Jews in 2014.

Antisemitism is not just growing in France, but also in nations across Europe. Growing numbers of Muslim immigrants to European countries, often sympathetic to the Palestinian cause, oppose Judaism and the self-proclaimed Jewish state, Israel, condemning it through the United Nations. Additionally, thousands of anti-Semitic terror attacks occur annually throughout Europe, many in the name of ISIS. As a result, Jews across Europe often hide their identities publicly for safety.

While Omri and I were strolling through London, the night before we traveled to Paris, we heard a familiar sound — an Israeli accent. We walked towards the woman, a merchant at London’s beloved Winter Wonderland carnival. “Do you speak Hebrew?” I asked her in Hebrew. “No,” she replied quickly, and in English. Deflated, we turned our backs on her shop and walked away. “Well, we can confirm two things,” Omri decided. “One, she is Israeli. And two…” he trailed off, looking into the distance. We knew that the woman was able to understand Hebrew from her rapid comprehension of my question in Hebrew and the fact that she was able to logically reply. But worse, we knew that she had to hide her identity as an Israeli Jew, for it could not only ruin her business, but also potentially make her the target of attack, because antisemitism is alive and well everywhere in Europe.

[pullquote]It could not only ruin her business, but also potentially make her the target of attack, because anti-Semitism is alive and well everywhere in Europe.[/pullquote]

Antisemitism has historically been even worse in France. So I pray for the day when there are no more religious attacks in France, in Europe, or anywhere else in the world. For the day when people do not have to conceal their faith behind the doors of their homes, when Omri and Benjamin can proudly don their kippot and their tallitot in public, when Muslims can wear burkinis at the beach. Because right now, in France, the separation of shul and state has gone too far.

Kayla Steinberg ‘20 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences. She can be reached at kaylasteinberg@wustl.edu.

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