In good faith

Features When Faiza Silmi was denied French citizenship last June, her case sharpened the focus on nationality and religion. She tells Hannah Westley about her ordeal.

Faiza Silmi says she was misrepresented by the French press covering her case.

The first Faiza Silmi knew about her application for French nationality being refused was when she read about it in the newspaper. The next day journalists came knocking at the door of the apartment she shares with her husband and four children.

"At that point, we telephoned the Council of State and a couple of days later we received official notification of the decision in the post. But it was very hurtful to learn about the decision via the media," Silmi says. At the time, she had no idea she was on the receiving end of a historic decision. It was the first time that the French Conseil d'Etat had refused to grant nationality on the grounds of religious expression.

Silmi, 32, moved to France from Morocco in 2000 after marrying her French husband, who is of Moroccan descent. French law allows non-native spouses of French nationals to acquire citizenship two years after marriage and in 2004, Faiza petitioned for nationality. She didn't give it a second thought; it seemed only natural that her request would be granted. After all, she was married to a Frenchman, spoke perfect French and had already given birth to French children. Besides, her brothers and sister, who also lived in France, had obtained French nationality with no problem.

However in 2005, the government denied her petition. In disbelief, the family appealed to the Conseil d'Etat (the Council of State - a judicial body that has final say on disputes between individuals and the public administration), which three years and many interviews later confirmed the ruling on June 27, which was then disclosed by a report in French daily Le Monde. According to the report, Silmi had "adopted a radical practice of her religion, incompatible with the essential values of the French community, and particularly with the principle of sexual equality".

It is not the first time that France's proudly upheld laïcité - the secularism enshrined in its constitution that separates the state from faith - has come under strain as the country's six million Muslims (Europe's largest Muslim minority) seek to express their religious traditions in public settings. In 2005, the Muslim headscarf was banned in state schools and other public buildings and there is rising concern over demands from some Muslims for sexual segregation in public swimming pools and sports grounds.

Although France's constitution guarantees freedom of religion, many French people regard religion as a private matter. Therefore, the extent of support for the appeal ruling was surprising, especially as it essentially extended the demands of French secularism into what has always been considered a private sphere - the home. Support traversed the political spectrum and inspired some outspoken views. France's Urban Affairs Minister Fadela Amara declared that all Islamic coverings for women, including the popular head and shoulder veil or hijab, were "symbols of oppression". A campaigner for women's rights and equality for Muslim women in France, Amara said she hoped the court ruling would "dissuade certain fanatics from imposing the burqa on their wives".

"The burqa is a prison; it's a straitjacket," she told Le Parisien newspaper. "It is not a religious insignia but the insignia of a totalitarian political project that advocates inequality between the sexes and which is totally devoid of democracy." The head of France's Muslim Council, Mohammed Mousaoui, was cautious in his reaction to the burqa decision. "It should not serve as a pretext to stigmatise the majority of Muslims or to point the finger at the practice of Islam," he said. "In the majority of Muslim schools ... the wearing of the burqa is neither an obligation nor a recommendation".

Silmi and her husband, Karim, live in a small town called La Verrière that is a 30-minute train ride southwest of Paris. As far as social housing goes, this estate feels secure and untroubled. Kids ride their bikes around the communal gardens and Faiza's flat is spacious, comfortably decorated and spotlessly clean. Sitting on the sofa in her living room as her four young children hang on her every word, Faiza says that had she known her petition would create such uproar she would never have appealed.

"I mean, it's just a bit of paper. We live our lives and we are very peaceful people. We didn't want this fuss." But what was most upsetting to the couple were the lies printed about them in the French press. "We don't know where the lies originated - whether they were in the original report or whether it's all been manipulated in the press. They made so many errors - they said I had three children. I have four. They said I was treated by a male gynecologist - as if that had any importance. I wasn't. I was treated by a female gynecologist. Like lots of women, I prefer to consult a woman. But the last time I went into hospital to give birth I was attended to by a male doctor. I didn't care. I'm not going to put my baby's life at risk."

More damaging for Silmi, however, were what she claims to be the inaccuracies compiled in the formal report by Emmanuelle Prada-Bordenave, based on interviews carried out with Faiza by the social services and submitted to the Conseil d'Etat. "She has no idea about the secular state or the right to vote. She lives in total submission to her male relatives. She seems to find this normal and the idea of challenging it has never crossed her mind," stated the report. It added that Faiza did not wear the burqa when she lived in Morocco, but adopted it at her husband's request. She wore the veil out of habit, rather than conviction.

"She lives virtually as a recluse, disconnected from French society," continued the report. "She has no concept of laïcité (the secular state) nor the right to vote. She lives in total subservience to the men in her family." Her husband says she was very depressed after she learnt about the decision and realised the consequences it held. But today she is indignant. "They said I was completely submissive to my husband. That's not true. Like other women I have a driving license, I go shopping, I collect my children from school. I do as I please. They said I lived as a recluse. That's not true either. I have female friends who visit me as well as my family."

Silmi speaks quickly and forcibly. She and her husband interrupt each other and finish each other's sentences in their eagerness to be understood. In this domestic setting, as Karim Silmi serves the mint tea, his wife certainly doesn't appear to be in submission to her husband. "They said my husband forced me to wear the veil, that I'd never worn one before. Of course, I wore a veil when I was growing up in Morocco but I didn't wear the niqab. I chose to wear the niqab myself later. It's a question of modesty. I don't want men I don't know looking at me."

Silmi and her husband have practised Salafism, a radical form of Islam, for the past seven years. It is a term they object to, even though it literally means they follow the way of the Prophet Muhammad and his companions. Earlier this summer Karim told The New York Times, "Today 'Salafist' has come to mean political Islam; people who don't like the government and who approve of violence call themselves Salafists. We have nothing to do with them."

It was after the birth of her first child in 2001 that Silmi decided, in correspondence with her growing belief, to adopt the wearing of the niqab. In the French press, the terms niqab and burqa are used interchangeably but Silmi points out that the burqa usually refers to the sort of covering most often seen in Afghanistan, where the women also wear a grill across their eyes. At home, she says she often dresses "European" like her husband, who apart from his beard and the prayer mark on his forehead would be indistinguishable from any other Frenchman on the street.

In her ruling, Emmanuelle Prada-Bordenave observed that Silmi came for interviews "clothed from head to toe in the clothing of women from the Arabian Peninsula, with a veil covering her hair, forehead and chin and a piece of cloth over her face. Her eyes could only be seen through a small slit." Her niqab was certainly the source of some controversy during her interviews. "At some point, we were sitting in this interview room and they asked me to take my veil off," she remembers. "As there were only women in the room and my husband, I agreed to. Then minutes later, a man walked into the room. I was really embarrassed. They were obviously seeking to provoke my husband. But they said it was an accident and my husband didn't react."

Faiza and her husband say that this is the first time they have experienced any sort of overt discrimination in France. "When I was a bus driver, I used to get called bin Laden because of my beard," says Karim. "But I've never really had any problems. I've lived on this estate since I was five years old. It's a very mixed community and everybody knows each other." Is it a coincidence that the Conseil d'Etat issued its ruling as the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, took the reins of the European Union's six-month rotating presidency, where he is urging the 27-nation bloc to follow France's example and toughen its immigration rules? At home, Sarkozy has introduced measures aimed at better integrating France's large immigrant population into mainstream society. As interior minister, he helped push through legislation requiring immigrants seeking work visas to speak French. Since the beginning of this year, immigrants must sign a "contract of integration" that attests to their support for French ideals such as laïcité or risk expulsion. They must also attend a daylong course on French history.

"I don't know if it has anything to do with politics," says Silmi. "We're not really very informed about politics. Now I think it has become a question of prejudice but we've never had problems of racism before. You see quite a few women around here who wear the niqab so I never stand out. A couple of months ago when I was out shopping, this old lady called out to me, 'You don't belong here, go home.' I just laughed, I was like, yes, you're right. I'm not from here. I'm from Morocco."

Since they have been the subject of press attention, Silmi and her husband have been approached by organisations and individuals who have offered them advice and help. A Danish lawyer has approached the family, offering legal advice should they want to pursue the matter further. "Some people have told us that we should take this to the European court because it isn't just about me anymore. It's become this big thing," says Silmi. "But I don't know if we have the energy for that. We're going to wait for a while before we make any decisions."

"This has always been my home but somehow it doesn't feel right staying here now. We'd like to move," says Karim. "I'd like us to go to Abu Dhabi. It's so beautiful there." He has travelled to Abu Dhabi on a number of occasions. "I love it there," he says. "It's a liberal Muslim country which has a great standard of living. The weather's great, people speak my language. I think it's a land of opportunity."