# Between Borders and Belonging: The New Faces of France
France: Europe’s Oldest Country of Immigration
When we think of immigration in Europe today, heated debates and political controversies quickly come to mind. But long before immigration became a “hot topic,” France had already carved out its unique place as Europe’s oldest country of immigration.
From the early 19th century, France stood apart. While other European nations saw waves of their citizens leaving for the New World—chasing opportunities in the Americas, Australia, or New Zealand—most French people chose to stay put. Apart from small pockets of migration (like the Barcelonnette merchants who ventured all the way to Mexico), France’s outward migration remained surprisingly low. Even French colonial territories, such as Algeria, did not attract large numbers of settlers in those days.
Instead, France became the opposite of its neighbors: a country that imported people rather than exported them. Industrial growth between 1850 and 1914 demanded more labor than the French population could supply, especially as the country’s demographic decline set in earlier than elsewhere in Europe. So, France opened its doors.
By 1851—the first census that officially distinguished between citizens and foreigners—there were already 380,000 foreigners living in France. That number rose to one million by 1900, three million by 1930, and about 3.5 million today. These figures tell the story of a country that has consistently drawn people in, even while its own citizens were less inclined to leave.Of course, France’s history of immigration hasn’t been one of smooth continuity. There have been intense surges of arrivals followed by sharp restrictions, periods of openness shadowed by waves of suspicion and controversy. Yet through it all, the country has remained a magnet—for workers, exiles, intellectuals, and families searching for a new life.
Even today, only around two million French citizens live abroad—a remarkably small number given France’s global presence and population size. France is, in short, a paradox: it sends out fewer emigrants than its neighbors but has welcomed more immigrants than almost any other country in Europe.
This “French exception” goes back to the late 18th century, when falling birth rates meant the country had to rely on others to fuel its economic growth and cultural dynamism. Ever since, immigration has been woven into the nation’s fabric—not just as a labor solution, but as a defining feature of modern France itself.
The First Great Waves of Immigration to France (19th Century)
During the First World War, France called on its colonies for both soldiers and workers—nearly 570,000 men from Africa and Asia fought, alongside 40,000 foreigners in the French Foreign Legion. Colonial workers from Indochina, Madagascar, and Algeria were also brought in for the war economy, while Europeans such as Spaniards, Italians, and Greeks filled labor shortages.
Between the wars, immigration surged. By 1931, there were almost 3 million foreigners in France—Italians, Poles, Jews fleeing pogroms, Armenians escaping genocide, and Russians and Germans running from revolution and fascism. Yet xenophobia grew too: the 1932 law restricted foreigners, and half a million Spanish refugees from the Civil War were confined to camps.
World War II brought a new mobilization of colonial troops and foreign fighters, but also harsh Vichy laws that stripped thousands—especially Jews—of citizenship and led to mass deportations. Still, many foreigners and colonials joined the Resistance.
Immigration in France After 1974
After 1945, immigration took on a new dimension. The Office National de l’Immigration was created, and during the economic boom of 1945–1974—the “thirty glorious years”—France welcomed massive waves of workers. Spaniards and Portuguese dominated construction, agriculture, and domestic work, with 700,000 Portuguese by 1970, many arriving illegally before being regularized. At the same time, North African migration exploded: by the early 1980s, there were 400,000 Moroccans, 200,000 Tunisians, and 800,000 Algerians in France.
By the end of this period, France had become a true crossroads of migration, shaped by war, colonial ties, and its booming postwar economy—laying the foundations of the diverse society it is today.
After 1974, France suspended labor immigration due to economic crisis and growing racial tensions. Yet in 1976, family reunification was restored, allowing many migrants to settle permanently. Migration gradually changed—women and families replaced the earlier flow of young male workers, and new arrivals increasingly came from sub-Saharan Africa, the Balkans, Turkey, and Southeast Asia (after the Vietnam War). Regularization campaigns followed: 143,000 people in 1981 and 90,000 in 1997.
By the 1980s and 1990s, non-European immigration began to surpass European arrivals. In 1999, France counted 3.2 million foreigners: 553,000 Portuguese, 504,000 Moroccans, 477,000 Algerians, 200,000 Southeast Asians, and 212,000 sub-Saharan Africans. Annual flows balanced out, with about 100,000 new entries and a similar number of naturalizations, keeping the foreign population stable at around 3.5 million.
In the 2000s, migration became predominantly African: by 2004, nearly two-thirds of newcomers were from the Maghreb and sub-Saharan Africa. France also faced challenges in collecting data, balancing the need for statistics with the desire to avoid stigmatization.
Today, France is second only to Germany in Europe in numbers of foreigners (3.5 million) and hosts about 6.7 million immigrants overall—10.7% of its population. With over half being women, immigration has deeply reshaped French society, turning the country into one of the world’s major migration destinations.
Debate on Ethnic Statistics and the “Second Generation” in France
In 2007, France reignited a heated debate over ethnic statistics. A proposed amendment to allow the collection of such data for measuring diversity and discrimination was struck down by the Constitutional Council, which ruled that classifying people by “race” or “ethnicity” violated the principle of equality. While some argued that such data could help fight discrimination, critics warned of the risks of stigmatization. Unlike the UK, France has chosen not to officially categorize its population by ethnic origin, relying instead on nationality and naturalization data.
This debate links closely to the story of France’s “second generation”—children of North African immigrants who settled permanently after labor migration was halted in 1974. Family reunification brought wives and children, many of whom were later born in France. Today, an estimated two million French citizens are of North African descent. Most are French by birth or by law (jus soli), though many also hold dual nationality through descent.
Despite their deep roots, the very term “second generation” raises questions: How long will these children of immigrants be labeled as such, when they are fully French citizens? Their story shows the tension in France between a universalist ideal of equality and the lived reality of diversity and migration.
Second Generation” or Simply French?
In France, the term “second generation” has always been loaded. Instead of recognizing young people of immigrant descent as full citizens, it often marks them out as a “problem group”—linked to crime, unrest, or the suburbs. Labels like “Beur” (slang for Arab) emerged in the 1980s, but even these terms carried the weight of difference, as if to remind them that they were not simply French.
Curiously, such labels rarely apply to children of Portuguese, Spanish, or Italian immigrants. Instead, it is mainly North African-origin youth who are questioned about their integration—a word that itself comes from France’s colonial past. Their loyalty is often doubted, because of dual nationality or their Muslim background, fueling suspicion and security-driven discourse.
Yet, for many of these young people, the reality is different. They grew up in French schools, neighborhoods, and civic associations. Debates on nationality laws in the 1990s pushed them to embrace their identity as French citizens, not just by papers but by participation in public life. Their “roots” are not in some distant country, but in the very suburbs and towns of France where they were born and raised.
The real question is not about their integration, but about France’s ability to see them simply as what they already are: French.
How Do the “Second Generation” Define Themselves?
For the children of immigrants in France, identity has never been simple. In the 1980s, they took to the streets to make their voices heard: the Beur March for equality in 1983, the massive SOS Racisme concert at Place de la Concorde in 1985, and later movements that claimed both the right to be different and the right to indifference.
But what did it really mean to be Beur? For many, it was a whole cultural universe—suburban fashion, Verlan slang, novels and films about the banlieues, and music that blended rap, rock, and traditional influences. It was also civic activism: joining associations, fighting discrimination, and even stepping into politics. Leaders like Harlem Désir and Arezki Dahmani acted as bridges between immigrant families and French institutions, while others embraced a Muslim identity rooted in both faith and Frenchness. Women, too, played their part, often navigating conflicts between family expectations and school values.
Take Samira, for example. Born in Lyon to Algerian parents, she grew up speaking French at school and Arabic at home. At 15, she joined a local youth association, helping organize cultural festivals in her neighborhood. For her parents, success meant keeping tradition; for her teachers, it meant integration into “French life.” For Samira, it was about building her own path—studying hard, volunteering, and later becoming the first in her family to attend university. Her journey shows how the “second generation” constantly negotiates identity, not as a problem, but as a creative balancing act.
Of course, identity is lived daily—through a subtle mix of “here” and “there,” France and ancestral roots. For some, this means pride in dual belonging; for others, confusion or rebellion. Yet despite political alarmism, the so-called “problems” of headscarves, radical Islam, or the 2005 riots concerned only a small minority.
For most of the second generation, the story is far more ordinary—and far more French: a story of neighborhoods, schools, associations, and young people shaping a culture that is neither imported nor imposed, but created right here, in France.
Loyalty, Belonging, and Exclusion: The Struggles of France’s “Second Generation”
For many children of immigrants in France, life feels like an obstacle course. Schools, jobs, housing, even leisure spaces—doors that should be open often remain closed. Discrimination follows them everywhere: in the classroom, when applying for housing, at the nightclub door, or in job interviews where their names or neighborhood addresses work against them.
Most grow up in suburban housing projects (HLMs), born out of 1960s urban planning meant to clear slums. These “new towns,” once symbols of modernity, soon became ethnic ghettos as middle-class families moved out and immigrant families were left behind. Here, identity gets boxed in—children study in “ghetto schools,” live in “ghetto housing,” and carry the stigma of “bad neighborhoods.”
Take Karim, born in one of Lyon’s estates in the late 1980s. At school, teachers often expected him to fail, even when his grades were above average. When he applied for jobs, his address on a résumé would trigger rejections—until he learned about a scheme where municipalities gave young people downtown postal addresses just to “look normal.” One nightclub bouncer once told him bluntly, “Not tonight—too many Arabs inside already.” And yet, Karim, like thousands of others, spoke perfect French, worked hard, and wanted nothing more than to belong.
The irony? Surveys show that youths of North African descent—especially Algerians—are among the most integrated in French society: speaking French at home, doing better in school than peers of similar class, and marrying outside their ethnic group more often than others. Yet they are still burdened by stereotypes—labeled racaille (“scum”) by Sarkozy in 2005, or sauvageons (“little savages”) by Chevènement earlier.
Life in the suburbs is not just about crime and despair. Yes, problems exist: drugs, gangs, exclusion. But it is also the birthplace of cultural creativity, civic activism, and resilience. Girls, in particular, have taken the lead—forming movements like Ni Putes Ni Soumises (“Neither Whores Nor Submissive”) to fight both sexism in their neighborhoods and discrimination from the outside world.
The real story of the “second generation” is not about failed integration—it’s about a constant battle against exclusion, fought with determination, identity, and everyday courage.
Islam, Ethnicity, and the Question of “French-Style” Identity
For France’s so-called “second generation,” identity is rarely simple. Many see themselves as fully French, yet are constantly reminded that others view them as “Arabs” or “Muslims,” never just citizens. They have often cut ties with their parents’ countries of origin—return is, at best, a fantasy—but they are still judged through the lens of history, colonial memory, and visible difference.
Religion adds another layer. France has nearly five million Muslims, making Islam the country’s second religion, but surveys show only 5–10% practice regularly. For most young people, Islam is part of their culture, not a strict lifestyle. Ramadan may be observed by 70%, yet it coexists with everyday French life: music, school, civic associations, or mixed marriages. Still, suspicion lingers. A booed national anthem at a football match, or isolated terrorist acts, become symbols in the media, overshadowing the quiet normality of millions.
Youth negotiate identity in creative ways—mixing republican values with community networks. Some join Muslim associations, not out of radicalism, but to gain independence or belonging. Others fight stereotypes by entering politics, the arts, or grassroots activism.
Unlike Britain, the Netherlands, or Germany, France resists the idea of multiculturalism. The Republic allows little space for ethnic or religious identity in public life, insisting instead on “living together” under universal values. Yet for many young French of immigrant origin, the struggle is precisely this: how to be recognized as fully French, while also being true to themselves.
Integration, Global Migration, and the Future of France
Contrary to many stereotypes, integration in France hasn’t failed—it’s happening every day, often in quiet, ordinary ways. Despite unemployment, discrimination, and the concentration of poverty in certain neighborhoods, the so-called “second generation” is part of France’s social fabric. They shape music, fashion, sports, and even politics. They are not outsiders peering in—they are France.
Take Nadia, for example. Born in Marseille to Algerian parents, she grew up speaking French, loving Zidane’s football, and dreaming of becoming a lawyer. At school, teachers sometimes doubted her because of her surname. But today, she runs a local association helping teenagers in her neighborhood prepare for exams. “I am French, fully French,” she says, “but I carry my parents’ history too.” Her life reflects the negotiation of identity—daily, subtle, but powerful.
This reality is visible both “from below” and “from above.” On the ground, young people like Nadia live a mixed, shared culture that blends local roots with global influences. At the same time, their growing presence as citizens and voters forces France to think differently about its role in the world. Foreign policy cannot ignore the voices of these new citizens. The Iraq War protests of 2003 or the symbolism of the Euro-Mediterranean dialogue show how domestic diversity directly influences international diplomacy. Even the enduring fame of Zinedine Zidane since the 1998 World Cup reminds the French political class that ignoring these youth is not an option.
But normalization matters more than celebrating a few heroes in sports or politics. The real challenge is ensuring that everyday young people—those in suburbs, classrooms, workplaces—find full recognition in French society.
Zooming out to the global stage, migration isn’t slowing down—it’s accelerating. Passports are more widespread, global media fuels dreams of mobility, and crises—whether political, economic, or environmental—continue to push people to move. Europe, because of its history and geography, has become one of the top destinations worldwide.
France illustrates this vividly. Efforts to shift toward “selective migration” with programs like the skills and talents card haven’t worked as expected. The reality is that unskilled and semi-skilled workers are still in demand—especially in services, care work, and tourism—and undocumented workers often fill these roles.
Interestingly, migration is no longer just concentrated in Paris or Lyon. Since 2005, Brittany, central France, and the west have also seen growing migrant populations. Elderly care, hospitality, and food services drive this spread, creating a more dispersed settlement pattern. Add to this a surprising trend: retirees from the UK and Germany settling in western and southern France, drawn by sunshine and lower living costs. Entire villages have become “Britishland,” echoing similar patterns in Spain, Portugal, Italy, Greece, and even North Africa.
Here, too, there’s a human story. Meet John and Margaret, a retired couple from Manchester who moved to rural Brittany in 2010. What began as a plan for “a quiet retirement” turned into something much bigger. They opened a small bed-and-breakfast, learned French from their neighbors, and became part of the local choir. “We thought we were escaping,” John laughs, “but instead, we found another community.” Their presence reflects how migration today is not just about hardship, but also about choice, lifestyle, and the search for belonging.
In short, migration is not only about people arriving from the Global South—it’s also about people from the North moving southwards in search of a new life. France stands at the heart of these shifting movements, balancing its republican model, its global responsibilities, and its changing face at home.
What Does Belonging Mean Today?
The stories of Nadia in Marseille and John and Margaret in Brittany remind us of one thing: migration is not only about numbers, policies, or borders. It is about people—ordinary people—navigating the search for home, dignity, and belonging. Whether it is the child of immigrants facing stereotypes in school, or a retiree reinventing life in a French village, the question is the same: how do we belong in a world that is constantly on the move?
France, with its republican ideals, colonial past, and diverse present, is a mirror of this global challenge. Integration isn’t just about “fitting in”—it’s about building a society where loyalty, identity, and opportunity can coexist. The future depends less on political slogans and more on daily encounters—in classrooms, workplaces, neighborhoods, and cultural spaces—where people learn to live together.
So, dear reader, I leave you with a question:
👉 What does belonging mean to you—in your city, your community, your family story?
Written by Janifer Yasmin , she is currently pursuing her master's degree programmes in Migration and diaspora from Indira Gandhi National Open University. She is deeply interested in Migration studies. She explores the complex journeys of migrants and their second generations. Her research interests lie in migration, integration, and diaspora communities, and through her writings, she aims to make these themes more accessible and engaging for a wider audience.
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