Outside the Lycée Robert Doisneau in Vaulx-en-Velin, a suburb of Lyon, France, there is a large circular window that doubles as a mirror. Every morning, I watch my students gather around it to remove their hijabs, pin back stray hairs, and tighten loose ponytails before crossing the border into their high school. Throughout the day, they wrap their veils around their necks like scarves, ready for the moment they will cross the border again, crowding around the same mirror to pin it back in place.

This ritual is not unique to the Lycée Robert Doinseau or the city of Lyon; it is a tenet of the French education system, the consequence of a 2004 law that banned the presence of “conspicuous religious symbols” in schools on the basis of the French principle of laïcité (the oft-forgotten “ité” of the liberté, egalité, fraternité trinity), translated into English as “secularism,” or the separation of church and state. The state’s restraining order against religion has been stitched into the fabric of French society: laïcité dates back to a 1905 law that aimed to eliminate the influence of the Catholic church on politics, putting one last nail in the theocratical coffin. France guarantees freedom of religion, but institutions of the state — such as public schools — must be religiously neutral.

As a Fulbright English teaching assistant in Lyon, I have begun to understand what the French mean when they claim that “la république est laïque.” When students and faculty pass through the school’s gates, their religious, political, and philosophical beliefs are subordinated to their national identity. The majority of my school’s students are Muslim. Still, there are no prayer rooms, no affinity groups, and no Halal meals. If there were a Pledge of Allegiance, there would certainly be no mentions of God. All instances of proselytizing, prayer, and, as of 2004, religious signage and clothing are documented and potentially sanctioned.