Being in France has taught me many things—how to slow down, how to savor a moment, how to pronounce rillettes without embarrassing myself—but one of the deeper cultural lessons I’m still wrapping my head around is laïcité.
In the U.S., we often talk about “freedom of religion”—the right to practice any faith, or none at all. But religion still lives loudly in public life. It's printed on our money, echoed in campaign speeches, woven into our court proceedings. In many places, it’s not unusual for prayer to open a school board meeting or for politicians to wear their faith like a badge.
France, on the other hand, leans more toward what you might call freedom from religion—at least in public life. That doesn’t mean you can’t believe. Quite the opposite. In France, you're completely free to follow any religion you choose—or to follow none at all. What’s different is that no religion can be imposed on you, especially in spaces run by the state. Public life is meant to be completely neutral—a space where everyone can show up as just a citizen, without any religious marker taking center stage.
It’s not anti-religion. It’s anti-imposition.
That distinction runs deep. In French public schools, for example, students and teachers are not allowed to wear visible religious symbols. It’s not just Muslim students who can’t wear a hijab. Christian students can’t wear a big cross. Jewish students can’t wear a yarmulke. The goal—at least in theory—is to protect the shared civic space from religious pressure, influence, or division. The public sphere, in this sense, is treated as a common good that must remain unmarked by belief.
This applies beyond schools, too. In France, when public officials take office, there’s no swearing in on a Bible—or on any religious text. It’s a civil ceremony, a civic commitment, not a religious one. The same goes for courtrooms. Witnesses are asked to swear to tell the truth, but not on a holy book. There’s no “so help me God” at the end of the oath. The idea is that justice, like governance, must remain secular—accessible and fair for everyone, regardless of belief.
And yet, France remains a deeply cultural place—and that includes religion. Many of the national holidays are rooted in the Catholic calendar: Christmas, Easter Monday, Ascension, All Saints’ Day. They’re observed nationwide, regardless of whether you’re practicing Catholicism, another religion, or none at all. The irony isn’t lost on anyone: the country that guards its secularism so fiercely still gives you time off for saints' days.
But maybe that’s just France in a nutshell—contradictory, layered, complex. A place where tradition and modernity constantly collide and rearrange themselves.
It’s also one of the reasons I find it so fascinating to live here.
France is home to the largest populations of both Jews and Muslims in Europe. And while laïcité aims to keep religion out of the public sphere, that hasn’t erased the deep cultural presence of these communities. For someone like me, who’s curious about the way belief shapes identity, history, and daily life, it’s actually created a beautiful space to explore. I’ve found myself learning more about Jewish traditions, listening to Muslim calls to prayer in certain neighborhoods, and having conversations with people who practice quietly, privately, but with profound conviction.
And here’s a small but memorable example of the culture clash I’ve felt: in the U.S., or even when traveling abroad with Americans, people will often bow their heads and pray aloud before a meal—at home, at restaurants, anywhere—without really checking if everyone at the table is comfortable with that. It’s assumed. Expected, even. I’ve always felt a little uneasy in those moments, as if someone else’s belief system is being draped over the entire table. But the first time that happened here in France—when a group of visiting Americans bowed their heads and prayed out loud at a restaurant—I nearly died of discomfort. Not just for myself, but for the people around us. For the waiter, who paused awkwardly. For the French diners, who visibly tensed. In that moment, I understood viscerally how different the relationship between religion and public space is here. It’s not about suppressing belief. It’s about protecting a shared social space where no one belief dominates or assumes itself as the default.
Another thing I’ve noticed: there’s no culture of evangelism here. No one approaches you on the street to ask if you’ve found salvation. No one strikes up casual conversation with the intent of steering it toward their religion. That kind of thing would be considered wildly inappropriate in France. It’s not because people aren’t spiritual—but because belief is seen as deeply personal, and no one has the right to impose theirs on someone else.
Coming from the U.S., where these encounters are almost normalized—especially in certain regions or subcultures—it’s honestly a relief. There’s a quiet respect here for each person’s internal world. You’re not expected to defend it, explain it, or share it. You’re just allowed to have it. Or not. And that permission, that privacy, creates space for curiosity. For growth. For personal, meaningful exploration that isn’t entangled in performance or persuasion.
I’ll admit, it took me a while to understand this approach. As someone raised in a culture that often celebrates pluralism by displaying it—where interfaith dialogue is on public display, and religion in politics is almost expected—France’s quiet, almost stoic neutrality felt strange at first. But it comes from a deep-rooted history: centuries of religious wars, monarchy-church entanglement, revolution, and eventually, a collective decision that peace required a clean line between faith and the Republic.
Laïcité isn’t always easy to apply. And it hasn’t always been applied fairly. But its intention, at least in its purest form, is equality. One rule for everyone. The state doesn’t care what god you worship, or if you worship at all. But when you step into a government space, a classroom, or a courtroom, you leave religion at the door—not because it’s shameful, but because it’s personal.
There’s something oddly freeing about that. Because in a place where belief isn’t constantly debated or politicized, you get to explore it on your own terms. Quietly. Freely.
Of course, neither the French nor the American approach is perfect. They both come with challenges. But living between these two worlds has made me realize that freedom can look very different depending on where you stand. And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe the most important thing is that we each remain free to question, to believe, to doubt, and to grow—and that no one gets to decide that path for us.
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