Colonial Restitutions: Moral Illusion and Disarmament of Cultural Heritage

Presented as a historic breakthrough, the framework law on the restitution of artworks acquired during the colonial period, currently being debated in the French National Assembly, may well turn out to be nothing more than a shaky compromise. Under the guise of legal rationalisation and diplomatic appeasement, the text reveals above all the ambiguities of a government caught between the demands of remembrance, international pressure, and an inability to adopt a clear stance on the issue of heritage.

The management of heritage assets acquired by France through its colonial conquests is a long-running legislative saga. For nearly nine years now, MPs have been discussing legislation on the potential restitution of cultural property brought to France during the formation of the Second French Colonial Empire—works transported to French soil whose acquisition between 1815 and 1972 is now considered unlawful. The debate is fraught with implications and is taking place against a backdrop of prevailing wokeness and European repentance for ‘colonial crimes.’ In this symbolic battle, France is merely one guilty party among many: Belgium and Britain are facing similar controversies.

Numerous reports have been published to prepare the ground, all ideologically driven, as the essayist Anne-Sophie Chazaud points out in the Revue des Deux Mondes, to denounce French colonial acquisitions:

The argument is presented exclusively from an accusatory perspective: war booty, raids under the pretext of ethnography, or purchases at rock-bottom prices from colonised populations—such is the triptych to which one never fails to add the inevitably nefarious role of Christian missions, which are presented en bloc as either hostile to objects embodying other belief systems, or as mere conduits, on the ground, for the colonisers’ predatory aims.

With such analytical frameworks, it is difficult to arrive at balanced legislative solutions regarding these restitutions, which must necessarily serve the narrative of ‘white guilt.’

For nine years, legislators have been struggling to find the right approach and to establish a comprehensive procedure where a case-by-case approach previously prevailed. The aim is therefore to circumvent the principle of the inalienability of public collections, which until now required specific laws to be passed for each restitution. By introducing an administrative decommissioning procedure, the government claims to be simplifying and speeding up restitutions. Under the guise of administrative simplification, the state is delegating a profoundly historical and symbolic decision to commissions and technical criteria—a sign of the unease surrounding a highly contentious issue.

The restitution of works taken in the context of conquest falls outside the usual categories of positive law. It is a matter of domination, power, and history. Legislating on this matter is a slippery slope that politicians are reluctant to tread; their aim is therefore to carry out a public relations exercise without overdoing it on the moral front—at the risk of upsetting everyone.

In the draft framework bill currently being debated in the National Assembly, France intends to retain the initiative, decide which cases are admissible, and set its own pace whilst presenting itself as a player acting in good faith. The text creates no obligation to return artefacts but merely an option, left to the discretion of the French state. On the Left, therefore, the law is criticised as being too timid, incapable of meeting the expectations of the plundered countries, and trapped in narrow legalism. Within the ranks of La France Insoumise and the Greens, there is regret that the word “colonisation” is not used in the text of the law and that the chronological framework is too restrictive. On the Right, there is concern about a dangerous trend, which paves the way for the gradual dismantling of national collections against a backdrop of diplomatic tension. The Rassemblement National has expressed concern regarding Algerian claims: given the appalling relations France currently maintains with its former territories, how can we hope for a balanced discussion on ‘looted’ works to take place?

Discussions on restitution also completely overlook any fundamental reflection on the value of the artworks. We must honestly acknowledge that the much-maligned colonisation also served as a tremendous catalyst for research and interest in non-European civilisations and helped save many masterpieces from oblivion or outright destruction. A Parisian museum such as the Guimet Museum, dedicated to Asian arts, is thus an incredible testament to the extraordinary curiosity of those French colonial elites who, in their time, made possible the restoration and preservation of such iconic sites as the temples of Angkor in Cambodia. France’s acquisition of numerous works is now an integral part of their history and of their transmission to future generations.

Among heritage advocates, concern is particularly acute. For behind the soothing rhetoric of ‘dialogue between states’ looms a dynamic that is difficult to control. Once the principle of restitution is accepted, on what grounds should we draw the line? Who will decide the limits? If we accept the principle of restitution without recognising its universal application, on what grounds will we defend the decision to retain certain works, whose history is, by its very nature, linked to contexts of domination? Far from providing a secure framework, the framework law risks, on the contrary, opening a legal and political Pandora’s box.

Added to this is a fundamental contradiction: the text claims to move beyond the logic of repentance whilst clearly following in its wake. For it is illusory to believe that the question of restitution can be treated in a neutral manner. Every decision reflects an interpretation of colonial history, a hierarchy of responsibilities and an implicit definition of justice. By refusing to acknowledge this explicitly, the government is adopting an untenable position, oscillating between denial and half-admission.

More profoundly still, this law calls into question the very conception of museums and heritage in France. The universalist model, often invoked to justify the preservation of artworks, is based on the idea that public collections belong to humanity as a whole. But this principle now clashes with claims to cultural sovereignty made by the countries of origin. By attempting to reconcile these two approaches without taking a decisive stance, the framework law resolves nothing; indeed, it institutionalises a deadlocked conflict.

The risk is therefore twofold. On the one hand, a gradual loss of international credibility if the promised restitutions are delayed or prove insufficient. On the other, an internal weakening of the French heritage model, which is subject to increasingly frequent challenges. Between these two pitfalls, the government is feeling its way forward, multiplying compromises and ambiguities.

Ultimately, this framework law resembles a technocratic response to a major political problem. Inspired by the Left, it gives the illusion of progress and substitutes procedural mechanics for a substantive debate. It appears to be the product of a state that struggles to conceive of its relationship with colonial history in any terms other than those of latent guilt. At a time when France is being sidelined in Africa, and when the states that emerged from its former colonial empire are unceremoniously showing it the door, it is once again demonstrating its inability to embrace its power and history and to command respect.