LIVING in another country profoundly affects how you perceive yourself as a citizen, how you view your home country, and your values.

This influence is evident in the voting patterns of French citizens abroad — we elect MPs representing overseas constituencies. For instance, I vote for an MP to represent me in the Northern Europe constituency.

It’s fascinating to observe how French expats vote. In Scotland, French voters showed a notably left-wing preference in the European elections. The Greens secured nearly a quarter of the vote, followed closely by the Socialists.

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Macron’s party came in third, with the radical left France Unbowed trailing behind. I’ve always wondered why this is the case, but I believe our votes are shaped by the political environment where we live.

I’m not just referring to which parties hold power, but to the prevailing discourse and values that become normalised and uncontested.

So as the far right is increasingly popular in France, I find myself frequently thinking about civic nationalism. It feels like we don’t hear much about it anymore in Scotland, and it saddens me a bit.

Perhaps it’s because there’s a perception that there’s no immediate threat that needs to be countered by an open, inclusive discourse. Maybe it’s because in this General Election campaign, the priority is the cost of living crisis, leaving little room for discussions on values and what makes us, us.

However, I worry that sidelining civic nationalism is dangerous. In the absence of a counter-narrative, exclusionary rhetoric from some conservatives and the Reform party gains traction and becomes normalised.

I think it is a terrible mistake that we’ve made in France: we’ve overlooked an essential aspect of our national identity, which is the Republic’s inclusive power — the idea that France is for everyone, not just those with French ancestry.

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This inclusive spirit, inherited from the 1789 Revolution, is a core part of our identity that we should be proud of. Only now are we revisiting these ideas, and it’s happening because the far right is alarmingly close to gaining power.

The lack of dialogue on civic nationalism in France frustrated me increasingly when I moved to Scotland. After the Brexit referendum, the conversation in Scotland was still vibrant: who belongs here? When can you consider yourself one of us?

What warmed my heart was the consensus was that someone like me belonged. My place of birth, my language, my upbringing – none of that mattered. What mattered was my desire to live and contribute to Scotland. This is the essence of civic nationalism. It is a model of inclusion that does not see diversity as a threat but as an enrichment.

I might never call myself Scottish, but because Scotland would readily accept me, it will always be a part of my identity. Scotland didn’t see my presence as a threat to its identity, so I embraced it, knowing it wouldn’t threaten or dilute mine.

I’m writing this because there’s much debate about the reasons why more people in France are voting for the far right. Is it a sense of humiliation, being overlooked? Yes. Do people feel unrepresented, seeing elites on TV who don’t speak or sound like them? Absolutely.

People also feel that “we’re not in France anymore” and “we’re changing too fast”. They resent everything about me and my life: a person of colour with a foreign name, different food, music, clothing, and culture.

When I see people who identify as Scottish Indian, Scottish Nigerian, or Scottish something else, I can’t help but having a bit of jealousy because this was never an option for people like me in France. Minority cultures, especially from former colonies, were always viewed with suspicion, as if they were threats to the very fabric of the nation.

I thought it was a fatality that France could never change. But by understanding civic nationalism, I realised this is what France was supposed to be all along. If reactionaries truly believed in the Republic’s founding values, they would speak like the Scots.

But it’s clear they only pretend to protect these values; what they actually aim is to preserve a fantasised white, Christian France. This is why the far right and increasingly the traditional right want to abolish jus soli – the right of anyone born in France to French citizenship.

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Revoking jus soli goes against the Republic’s identity and what unites the French. Historically, only Pétain, who collaborated with Nazi Germany in the 1940s, dared to challenge this fundamental principle of the French nation. Jus soli automatically grants nationality to children born and raised in France, emphasising integration through French society and education, extending citizenship beyond bloodline.

Ernest Renan, a great thinker of the nation, described the nation as a daily plebiscite. Citizenship in France, inspired by the Enlightenment, transcends race, ethnicity, religion, and national origin. Our constitution states: “The Republic ensures equality before the law for all citizens, without distinction of origin, race, or religion.” Yet this model is under threat.

Historian Pierre Birnbaum’s warning about the long-term challenge to the French model of citizenship is pertinent. He says that economic liberalism, social inequalities, and the delegitimisation of the state drive citizens to retreat into private, exclusionary spaces. This retreat endangers our public solidarity and our civic nationalism.

If this erosion of civic nationalism happened in France, it could happen in Scotland too.

Scotland’s embrace of inclusive nationalism should be a model. After Brexit, there was a lively conversation about who belongs, and I must admit I miss it.

In 2016, the Scottish Parliament held a debate on immigration that left a lasting impression on me. All parties, including the Conservatives under Jackson Carlaw, expressed overwhelming support for immigration. Carlaw, the Tory leader at the time, also spoke in favour of welcoming immigrants. This rare moment of cross-party agreement highlighted the inclusive values that Scotland aspires to uphold. Watching that debate, I thought, “Yes, I want to be part of that.”

When Jackie Kay opened the Scottish Parliament with her moving poem Threshold, I was deeply touched. Her words, “our strength is our difference, dinnae fear it, dinnae caw canny,” perfectly captured Scotland’s inclusive spirit.

Hearing those lines, I couldn’t help but well up. They reflected everything I cherish about this country: its embrace of diversity and its courage to celebrate it. Kay’s poem reminded me why I feel so connected to Scotland and made me even more proud to be part of a community that sees strength in our differences and isn’t afraid to acknowledge it.

Scotland’s independence movement must learn from France’s mistakes. It must articulate a vision of Scotland that is open, tolerant, and crucially socially protective. An inclusive civic nationalism can counter exclusionary rhetoric and foster a sense of belonging for all citizens.