Taking Civic Lessons in France: A Foreign Experience of Immigration Reform
If living in France sounds too romantic, allow me to describe the paperwork involved. In 2025, my husband and I decided to move to France from the United States. Setting aside the move's symbolism for our binational family, a more literal consequence of this choice was my transformation from U.S. citizen to foreigner with a one-year carte de sejour. This status came with new regulations and restrictions. If I wanted to apply for a multi-year visa, which I did, I had to comply with France's new immigration reforms. Under a law that took effect on January 1st of this year, I was required to take civic lessons, pass a civic exam, pass a language exam, and sign a contract swearing I would uphold the values of the Republic. In other words, a lot of procedures and paperwork.
"I am, quite frankly, shocked by the hurdles you have to jump through," a woman reviewing the requirements told me.
She had a point. When my husband had applied for his American Green Card, there had been no language requirements or civic classes. Even in the current U.S. administration, the process for visas and green cards consists mostly of forms, fees, and a medical interview. The French process is deliberately onerous to appease a public hostility around immigration. France may not be carrying out large-scale deportations, but a 2025 poll revealed more than half of French respondents were in favor of admitting no new migrants and requiring large numbers of recent arrivals to leave. National Rally president Jordan Bardella—a likely candidate for next year's Presidential election—called for a referendum on immigration, saying it had become “the elephant in the room” and “a veritable phenomenon of submersion.”
To me, the civic lessons and other requirements felt more like a nuisance than a political attack. France's bureaucratic show of force, however formidable, was mostly a question of checking boxes. Furthermore, I didn't know what to expect. The only information I had about my civic lessons came from a one-page summons. For four consecutive Saturdays, I was required to travel to the IDC Formation Center in Dammarie-lés-Lys. The lessons would start at 8:45, but I had no idea how long they would last, and I could only guess what the content, teaching style, or atmosphere would be like. If my recent medical exam at the immigration office was any indication, I could only expect to be simultaneously anxious, annoyed, and bored to tears. I doubted the lessons would be of any use at all.
Despite my feet-dragging and eye-rolling, I arrived a few minutes early for my first class. Forty-five minutes from Paris, Dammarie-lés-Lys is a mid-sized commune that boasts a crumbling historic abbey. It is otherwise generically modern. The streets are mostly lined with stuccoed apartment buildings and houses painted a similar shade of beige. The IDC Formation Center is tucked in a small cul de sac and resembles an oversized trailer. The building would have been easy to miss if not for the crowd that waited outside smoking cigarettes and talking on their phones. Tired and apprehensive, I joined the group and waited.
At exactly 8:45, the mechanical window blinds began to roll upwards, and a woman unlocked the door. We shuffled through the entryway, escaping the damp , chilly air. The reception area was a far cry from the dingy corridors of the immigration office I had visited in Melun. The walls were a clean white, illuminated by several windows. A break room was equipped with a filtered water cooler and microwaves. I later discovered that the center is a private, contracted enterprise specializing in professional development. The Center’s other offerings include courses for hotel receptionists, sanitary workers, and first aid responders. This explained the nicer facilities and the professionally dressed, courteous staff.
The woman at the front desk directed us to classrooms depending on our language abilities. There was one room for French instruction and others for English, Spanish, Arabic, and Tamil translations. After some confusion, I found my name printed outside the door for the French courses. My estimated language ability had qualified me for native instruction. I took a desk and waited with thirteen others. The room was quiet. Many scrolled on their phones or rested their heads on their desks. Minutes ticked by in suspense.
Finally, our instructor arrived and apologized for being late. He was mid-thirties and energetic, sporting rectangular glasses and a patchy black beard that made him look revolutionary. Think Che Guevara if he were French. He smiled, and in a familiar first-day activity, we stated our names and origins. The most frequent nationalities were Tunisian and Congolese. Others were from Brazil, Cote d’Ivoire, Bangladesh, and Mauritius. There was one other American from Detroit. After our introductions, we were joined by a Sudanese group and their Arabic translator.
As the first day ticked on, the atmosphere became relaxed, aided by the instructor's playful jabs at the students who responded with banter of their own. The lesson began with instructions on how to open a bank account, get a driver’s license, and file taxes. The afternoon was spent on the symbols of France (the flag, the national anthem, Marianne, Bastille Day, and the rooster). On coffee breaks, many chatted in the hallway, sipping cheap espresso from vending machines. The day did not exactly fly by, but it didn't crawl either. I left after eight hours, pleasantly surprised.
The following week, feeling like I was back in high school, I scribbled notes about French history and politics, our two themes for the day. I learned about France's five Republics and its iterative constitution. I learned about my own voting rights. What the course's minimal PowerPoint slides lacked in style, they made up for in substance, and our instructor added colorful commentary where he could.
Also similar to a high school environment, my class began to socialize. Outside of the civic lessons, it's unlikely that people from so many different social backgrounds and nationalities would have a reason to interact. We lived in different neighborhoods, frequented different establishments, ate different foods, and spoke different languages. Our reasons for immigration also varied. Some were in France for job opportunities. Others had married a French national. Still others were fleeing conflicts as humanitarian refugees, a category that constituted almost a quarter of new resident permits in 2025.
Our status as peers, however, provided solidarity, and stuck in a room for eight hours, we built a rapport. We vented, commiserated, and shared advice. One woman was having issues with her landlord, who only furnished her kitchen with an illegal butane stove. A few parents were dealing with school bullying and discussed their strategies for alerting the schools. Together, we speculated over French behavior. We laughed in relief.
Was my positive experience representative of the average attendee? It's hard for me to tell. Crucially, my experience was aided by the fact that I already spoke French. The language barrier is one I had been working to overcome for fourteen years, and I still remember, with painful clarity, the disorientation, shame, and fear that comes from living in a place where you do not speak the language. The French word étranger means both foreigner and stranger, and it's easy to feel the weight of the latter definition if you are not fluent.
This is where the new requirements may fall short. Under the new law, those wishing to stay on multi-year visas, with the exception of refugees, are required to meet an A2 level of French. The nationality requirements were also raised from B1 to B2. The best way to learn French, however, is through immersion, and though the government offers free language lessons to recent arrivals, by the time they start to get a handle on some basics, their one-year visa will have probably expired.
This may be the point. That foreign residents should speak good French merely went from an implicit requirement to an explicit one. The United States' modern attempt to implement English as its official language feels surprisingly timid in comparison to France, which has had an official language since 1539. Recent legislation further defies pressure to prioritize any accommodation, especially for English, the modern lingua franca. The 1994 Toubon law requires that all French employees receive their work instructions in French, and at least 40% of songs played on the radio must be in French. The elected members of the Académie Française, the official language regulators since 1635, set prescriptive rules and transform English words like "email" to "courriel."
Beyond fluency, the French system, more than the American one, emphasizes cultural assimilation. Foreigners arriving from Francophone countries may be united by a language, but they also may be surprised by France's different legal and cultural norms around religion and secularism, gender, employment, and social security. These differences spark the more extreme ideological debates in France, with far-right politicians usually focusing on Muslim immigrants. Politicians like Bruno Retailleau recently complained of "low-level Islamism” that aimed to "turn the entire French society to Sharia law." Retailleau is the leader of the right-wing party Les Republicans and oversaw immigration policies from 2024 to 2025.
Though these claims are vastly exaggerated, over the four civic classes, some of the fissures in cultural understanding became evident, especially around gender. Several slides in the course are devoted to the illegality of female genital mutilation (FGM), a practice still present in some Sub-Saharan African countries. Under French social security, victims of FGM can have reconstructive surgery at no cost.
By far, the most controversial dialogue centered around interpersonal relationships, children, and marriage. Under French law, each person in a relationship is free to choose whether they want children. Upon learning this, a few of the men in the room expressed exasperation. “But what if my wife does not want a child?” one asked. Others were bolder. “Why would I waste my salary on my wife if she will not give me children?” From another, “Why would I even get married?”
Our instructor was firm, explaining that differences of opinion in relationships are common, and the statute holds. The right to choose whether to have children is fundamental and protected by law. If a couple finds they cannot come to an agreement, they are free to divorce. On the fourth day, when the topic came up again, a man clarified, “if my wife does not want children, can I have a child with another woman?” This issued a wave of derisive laughter, and a Moroccan woman next to me informed me that in her home country, it is legal to have up to four wives.
These tensions, however, were not representative of the general atmosphere. For the entire four days, the majority of participants were engaged, respectful, curious, and supportive. On the third day, working with a Congolese man, I compiled a list of regional artists and foods to share with the class. For the Ile de France region, I suggested Brie de Melun, a cheese created not far from the IDC Center. The man suggested adding Johnny Halliday, the legendary rock singer from the 1980s. Together, we compiled a list that received a round of applause after we read it aloud, and as we dispersed for the day, my partner gave me a jovial clap on the back. We smiled and thanked each other.
On the final day, to my great disappointment, I realized I had been placed in a different French-speaking group. The woman from Detroit shared my fate, and we lamented the change. Thankfully, the new instructor was just as energetic, funny, and no-nonsense as her colleague. In a review session, we role-played different scenarios, including how to respond to discrimination. According to a report, legal discrimination complaints based on country of origin are the second highest category in France behind disability.
I ate my final lunch with a woman from Chile, and while she told me about meeting her French husband, a Turkish woman unpacked two large bags of food to celebrate the last day of classes. The Turkish woman spoke no French, but a friend translated for her as she sliced pieces of chocolate cake and handed them to everyone in the room. Next to the cake was a thermos as tall as a toddler, and I was soon offered Turkish coffee to go with my cake. When I expressed my enthusiasm and gratitude, the Turkish women suggested I try their çiğ kӧfte, a specialty of the southeast. A mix of meat, tomato paste, and spices, I was instructed to take a leaf of lettuce and use it to scoop part of the large red patty. To my delight, it was the first spicy food I’d tasted since I arrived in France. Even the local Indian and Chinese restaurants trended extremely mild, afraid to upset the French palate. When I told them how grateful I was to feel the heat on my tongue, the Turkish women laughed and nodded in understanding.
As a parting gift, our instructor gave us certificates for free admission to any national monument in France. To my surprise, I left the IDC Center feeling a little sad that the courses had come to an end. Luckily, I had company for the walk to the train, and on our way out, someone offered us a ride. During the following weeks, when I had to apply for a numero fiscal identifiant for my bank account, I consulted the civic lesson slides posted on the government's website. And when my husband and I listened to Le Jeu de Mille Euros podcast, a notoriously difficult French game show, I successfully answered a question about Napoleon II that I had learned in my classes. It is too early to tell what large-scale effects the new requirements will have on immigration statistics, but for me, the classes offered unexpected support in a new country, and although my classmates and I remain foreigners in France, some of us are no longer strangers.
Anna Vallée is a writer currently based in France. Her writing has been published in Arrowsmith Journal, Brattle Street Review, MicroLit Almanac, and Poetries in English. She was a semifinalist for The Adroit Journal’s 2025 Anthony Veasna So Fiction Scholars, and her short story won a Tucson Festival of Books Literary Award. She is the coeditor of Literally, a literary magazine, and is working on a novel. www.annavallee.com, Instagram: @avallee.writes