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Can Muslims in France Even Dream of Organizing Themselves?
In France, dreaming is often a luxury that Muslims can scarcely afford—whether in the waking world or in fleeting moments of daydreams. A fifteen-year-old girl I’ll call Aïssatou was lost in one of those moments, as she waited outside her high school in Mantes-la-Jolie, a suburb close to Paris, with her headphones on. But reality quickly set in when a teacher blocked her entry. “Not with that on,” the teacher said, pointing to her flowing gown. The September 2023 ban on the abaya in French public schools had just taken effect, transforming a simple garment into a reason for exclusion.
France’s Islamophobia is rooted in a continuum that stretches from colonial legacies to the present day. Since the early 19th century, predominantly Muslim North African and Black communities have fought for their rights through various forms of organized resistance. Samori Touré, the leader of the Wassoulou Empire and an almamy (religious head of a Muslim empire) in West Africa in the late 1880s, used an unparalleled knowledge of the dense forests to outwit French forces despite being heavily outnumbered. In Algeria, during the War of Independence (1954–1962), women used the haïk, a long shawl, to conceal explosives and weapons, allowing them to blend into the civilian population and launch surprise attacks on French forces. Fast-forward to 2019, when more than 13,000 people took to the streets of Paris in a march against rising Islamophobia, demanding that the systemic discrimination facing Muslim communities in France be finally recognized.
Muslim activism in France has deep roots, stretching back to the 1920s with groups like L’Association des étudiants musulmans nord-africains. Over the decades, it expanded to include unions formed by immigrant Muslim workers, grassroots associations, and neighborhood collectives. Even then, these organizations faced scrutiny and repression. But today, the barriers are higher than ever. As sociologist and director of research at the CNRS Julien Talpin observes, “Muslim organizing is frequently presented as a threat to the French secular model.”
A series of increasingly repressive laws emerged from the 1990s to the early 2000s. It began with the 1992 French Council of State ruling that granted schools discretion in enforcing secularism. Then, the 2004 law banned conspicuous religious symbols in public schools. This pattern became more pronounced with the 2010 nationwide ban on full-face veils. Local bans on the burkini, and debates over alternative meals and gender-segregated swimming pools further reflected a broad effort to marginalize Muslims. In 2021 came the Separatism Law, the crown jewel of this legislative arsenal. This law does not explicitly target Muslims. In a 2020 letter to the Financial Times, Macron insisted, “France is against ‘Islamist separatism’: never Islam.” Yet as early as 2018, shortly after his election, he had already declared his priority to “set down markers on the entire way in which Islam is organized in France.”
In the years since, this distinction has become blurry. Activists fighting for civil rights, social justice, and equality within their communities are labeled “separatists” or “Islamists.” The Collective Against Islamophobia in France (CCIF), for example, was dissolved not for its actions, but initially because of alleged ties to Islamism, which the French government defines as a radical approach to Islam that is hateful or incompatible with republican values. This fight against Islamism is taking a toll on associations. According to the Observatory of Associative Freedoms: “These associations are targeted as central elements of an ‘Islamist ecosystem’… Yet, no serious social science research has demonstrated this phenomenon.”
With the separatism law, the French state made it clear that any Muslim organization receiving state funding must publicly pledge allegiance to the “values of the Republic”: a vague concept that can be invoked at any time to silence dissent. As the former minister for gender equality Marlène Schiappa declared during an interview for the radio station Europe 1, “no public money will go to enemies of the Republic.” And who qualifies as an enemy? Groups like FEMYSO, which represents 32 Muslim youth organizations across 22 European countries and finds itself labeled “Islamist” by the French media and criticized by the former interior minister Gérald Darmanin.
Language has emerged as a powerful battleground. Terms like “communitarianism” and “separatism,” now commonly used in political discourse and public policy, are disproportionately aimed at Muslim groups. The basis of these attacks lies in the government’s concern that some Muslim communities are creating “counter societies,” to quote Macron, that challenge France’s secular values and social cohesion.
The scholar Houda Asal calls this a “war of words,” in which new terms have emerged in French discourse to label groups connected to Islam, such as Islamists, extremists, radicalized, Islamo-leftists, and separatists. These terms are never clearly defined, but they are used to suggest an internal threat within the Muslim community in France. As Asal explains in Qalqalah قلقلة, these neologisms contribute to confusion, blurring the line between the broader Muslim community and those who are labeled this way. These words serve to delegitimize Muslim collective organizing, and even the idea of a legitimate Muslim.
While France’s legal measures and ideological framing set the stage for repression, barriers to Muslim mobilization have since evolved into bureaucratic obstacles. Tactics like freezing bank accounts and delaying funding approvals are the norm. Moreover, any trace of foreign funding is quickly framed as evidence of “interference” or “Islamist financing.” One striking example is the Association for Muslim Rights (ADM), whose bank account was suddenly shut down without explanation in 2019.
The French state has also increasingly relied on carceral practices, surveillance, and police violence to enforce its policies.
Last year, Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International filed a complaint with the U.N., denouncing racial profiling by French police that targeted Black and Arab young men. Decades of police-related deaths—Zyed Benna and Bouna Traoré (2005), Lamine Dieng (2007), Adama Traoré (2016), Cédric Chouviat (2020), and Nahel Merzouk (2023), to name a few—underscore this systemic violence. Lastly, surveillance of Muslim communities has intensified. In 2023, deportations tied to “radical and political Islam” rose by 26%. A notable case is that of Abdourahmane Ridouane, the president of the Pessac mosque near Bordeaux. He currently faces deportation and is accused by French authorities of advocating terrorism because of his support for Palestine. Officials specifically point to his characterization of Hamas as a “resistance movement.” During the Olympic Games, authorities placed 155 people under surveillance and administrative control because they were considered dangerous. But many of them have never been charged with or convicted of any crime. This was the case for Mahmoud and Halim A.
Ultimately, the problem is a legal and institutional chokehold. The state reinforces this by carefully curating its own intermediaries. Institutions like the Conseil français du culte musulman (CFCM) have been widely criticized for attempting to turn Islam in France into a more state-controlled religious institution, echoing colonial-era practices. Its successor, Le Forum de l’Islam de France, has its members handpicked by the government to ensure the right kind of compliance.
Then there’s Imam Hassen Chalghoumi, a walking meme and a figurehead for the “good Muslim” stereotype, tirelessly proving that anyone can embrace republican values—if they repeat exactly what the state wants to hear.
But the obstacles to Muslim organizing extend beyond state repression to internal challenges within the community itself. For Yasser Louati, a political analyst and the president of the Comité Justice & Libertés Pour Tous, it’s even worse with independent organizations. In an interview with Acacia, he explained: “Look at the history of Islamophobia-fighting groups that were dissolved, they were at odds with each other.” Competing for the state’s attention, they played a game of musical chairs while their mission was lost. “It’s less about finding solutions and more about securing a seat at the table,” he added, frustrated.
And it’s not just infighting. Louati points to a deeply ingrained culture of obedience within the community, one he argues stems from an outdated, colonial-era mindset. “It’s what is described in the book The Nature of Tyranny by Al-Kawakibi. Muslims are conditioned to obey their leaders and not question them,” he noted. This deference has, in Louati’s eyes, stifled ambition and imagination. Why dream of systemic change when you’ve been told to stay in your lane?
It’s a pattern, Louati argues, born of both history and misplaced faith. “In France, there’s this belief that invoking the République’s promises is enough to make them materialize. But when has that ever worked for us?” he asked. French Muslims, like other groups, are often encouraged to engage through official channels—petitioning the state, appealing to republican values, and seeking institutional recognition. Instead of fostering grassroots-led change, this centralization often results in frustration and stagnation. Demands for equality are met with symbolic gestures: state-approved displays of dialogue that create the illusion of inclusion while entrenching control. The Forum de l’Islam de France exemplifies this dynamic: presented as an outreach effort toward Muslims, it amplifies only compliant voices, handpicking representatives who rarely challenge the government with difficult questions.
“The state is perfectly within its role when it creates phantom institutions meant to represent populations. This method was applied during the colonial era, when imams and zaouïas—religious centers in North Africa linked to Sufi brotherhoods—were co-opted, and local leaders, known as caïds, were brought under control,” said Louati. “We need to organize for ourselves, by ourselves.”
Worryingly, according to Louati, even the imams, historical leaders of the ummah, aren’t intervening. They come from countries where the cultural and political realities are worlds apart, and are ill-equipped to address the needs of French Muslims. During pivotal moments like the debate over the separatism law, their voices were conspicuously absent. This could stem from the immense pressures imams face. The separatism law now bans foreign-trained imams. Those already in France are under intense scrutiny. If their sermons are deemed problematic, they risk expulsion. They are being watched. Already in 2008, the journalist Isabelle Mandraud revealed that France’s internal security services could, when necessary, monitor, infiltrate, and question Muslims, organizations, or mosques.
For Louati, the path forward is clear. French Muslims must build political consciousness, recognize that they are as French as anyone else, and stop letting others dictate the terms of their identity. He calls for leaders who understand the unique struggles of French Muslims, who can reconcile religious tradition with the realities of modern France. Louati urges Muslims to reject old scripts, embrace a new narrative, and stop waiting for a seat at a table never meant for them—because when the door stays shut, it’s time to build your own house.
Julien Talpin feels similarly: “Social advances, particularly toward greater equality, have always been achieved through struggle and collective organization. For that, it’s essential to organize.” In an interview with Acacia, he acknowledged the challenges at hand, but said he remains optimistic about the potential rise of “influential” Muslim figures—academics, activists, politicians, and community leaders—who, in a more supportive environment, could play a key role in shaping the future. “Social movements often work in cycles,” he explained. “We are clearly in a period where perseverance is needed—waiting for better days.”
In light of the heightened scrutiny on Muslim organizations, the question of feasibility—whether building political influence is even possible—becomes critical. A more strategic approach to combating Islamophobia in France would be to frame it as part of a broader fight for social justice. But this too carries a risk: the specific struggles of Muslims could dissolve into a sea of other issues, losing visibility and urgency. Talpin has no clear answer to this dilemma. “Maybe the fight against Islamophobia also requires convincing political parties,” he suggested.
In reality, the path to progress through political engagement is far from certain.
The myth of the “Muslim vote,” the misconception that Muslims in France vote as a single, unified bloc, continues to shape and distort political discourse in France. Media outlets and far-right movements have long used the term “Muslim vote” to discredit their opponents during election cycles and discourage other left-wing voters. By framing the left as the party of “Islamists” they attempt to create a false link between left-wing politics and religious extremism.
Islam is just one factor among many in electoral choices. For example, in the 2012 presidential election, 86 percent of Muslim voters supported the Socialist candidate François Hollande. But, in the 2024 European Parliament elections, if 62 percent of Muslim voters supported the left-wing La France Insoumise (LFI) party, 59 percent abstained, highlighting their growing dissatisfaction with the left.
For many, the prospect of collective organization in France feels increasingly out of reach. Talpin sees a growing sense of resignation among Muslims, one that he links to the success of La France, tu l’aimes mais tu la quittes, a book he co-wrote about the political and social mechanisms pushing racialized French Muslims to emigrate, not for opportunity, but as a form of exile: a Muslim “brain drain.” “The book’s popularity speaks to this shift: many are asking themselves whether, in a climate where organizing feels impossible, the only real option left is to walk away. Some are even wondering if mobilizing from abroad might be a more effective way to support the cause back home.”
Yet, despite this climate of frustration, not everyone is giving up, Talpin points out. “Many activists are choosing to organize underground, which may be the most pragmatic approach.”
Among them is Perspectives Musulmanes (Muslim Perspectives), a group that mobilizes against Islamophobia through political education, grassroots organizing, and alliances with both radical and institutional left-wing movements. Rather than operating in isolation, they weave their cause into broader struggles against systemic oppression, positioning the fight against anti-Muslim discrimination as part of a wider battle for social justice. Other groups take a different approach. The Collectif Attariq (Attariq Collective) turns to intellectual and theological resistance, challenging dominant narratives by reexamining the Qur’an through the lens of Semitic rhetoric. Their goal: to strip away ideological distortions, push back against Orientalist readings, and reclaim religion as a space of defiance. Attariq also draws from prophetic traditions, studying how figures of revelation functioned as disruptors within their societies.
For the activists I spoke to, shifting to more discreet resistance isn’t withdrawal or “Islamist separatism” but survival. Visibility comes at a cost, not just for Muslims but also for other groups that challenge the state, directly or indirectly: climate activists are sent to prison and human rights groups are smeared as “terrorists” for aiding migrants. In a country that champions universalism yet punishes those who don’t fit its mold, the simple act of existing outside its boundaries, whether for minorities, activists, or the most vulnerable, has become a quiet rebellion. For French Muslims, even the dream of organizing is an act of defiance. And perhaps that’s what dreams are made of—quiet rebellions that endure, no matter how often they are silenced.