Brussels — On 25 March 2026, the main hall of the United Nations General Assembly (New York) echoed with a historic proclamation. With 123 votes in favour, three against and 52 abstentions, the UN adopted a resolution declaring the transatlantic slave trade ‘the gravest crime against humanity’. This was a moment of profound significance for the nations of the Global South, representing the culmination of decades of advocacy led by the African Union and the Caribbean Community (CARICOM) in the diplomatic arena.
However, for France, a nation that prides itself on being the cradle of human rights, this moment was characterized by silence. France abstained.
This diplomatic hesitation did not occur in a vacuum. It stems from a long-standing tension within the French Republic between its universalist ideals and its history of slavery. To understand why Paris distanced itself from this historic event, one must look beyond the immediate press releases and examine the legal and emotional mechanisms that govern the French state’s relationship with its past.
The anatomy of a compromise
The official justification given by the French government at the National Assembly, as relayed by the Secretary of State for Foreign Trade, Nicolas Forissier, was technical in nature. Paris argued that the wording of the resolution — particularly the phrase ‘the most serious crime’ — risked creating a hierarchy of atrocities that was incompatible with the universal nature of crimes against humanity.
However, this diplomatic rigidity masks a deeper concern. In 2001, France became a pioneer when it became the first nation to recognise slavery and the slave trade as crimes against humanity through the Taubira Act. Yet closer analysis of the parliamentary debates at the time reveals that this recognition was the result of a precarious political compromise.
The archives show that, while the French legislature agreed to name the crime, they systematically removed any mention of reparations or financial liability from the text. As Jean-Marc Ayrault and Aïssata Seck, the president and director respectively of the Foundation for the Memory of Slavery, recently highlighted in Le Monde, the law provided ‘truth’ for historians, but denied ‘justice’ to the victims.
France’s abstention in 2026 is a direct result of this 25-year-old fear. By abstaining, the French state is attempting to control the narrative. It accepts the historical diagnosis, but rejects the legal prescription. The government fears that voting in favour of a UN resolution explicitly calling for a ‘dialogue on reparations’, as the Ghanaian text does, would weaken its defence against potential compensation claims.
This diplomatic calculation has caused an outcry in France’s overseas territories, where the history of slavery is not an academic subject, but a living memory.
In the National Assembly, disbelief reigned. Max Mathiasin, the MP for Guadeloupe, denounced the abstention as a‘missed opportunity’. He was joined by a chorus of voices from Martinique and French Guiana, including Senator Victorin Lurel, who accused the government of a ‘moral and historical failure’.
The media reaction reflected this division. While publications such as Le Figaro questioned the validity of classifying these acts as historical crimes and highlighted the role of African elites in the slave trade, the overseas press and the left generally felt betrayed. Critics argued that, by refusing to sign the text, France was isolating itself from the Caribbean community even though it was seeking to strengthen its ties with the continent.
A legacy of memory: Christine Mirre’s perspective. When the law undermines heritage memory
Amidst the cacophony of political statements, the perspective of individuals working within the realm of international human rights provides a tangible understanding of the ramifications of this abstention.
Christine Mirre, director of CAP LC (Coordination des Associations et des Particuliers pour la Liberté de Conscience) and CAP LC’s representative to the UN, followed the vote with particular interest. Approaching these debates and this resolution with a professional eye, she was fully aware of the mechanisms of human rights, whilst refusing to position herself as a victim and acknowledging her own subjective involvement, which has shaped the person she is today due to her family history.
Christine Mirre’s presence at the UN is no coincidence. In her work defending human rights, her history and heritage shape her identity, and she brings to the fore a heritage as complex as the history of the Caribbean itself. Her family’s history is a microcosm of Guadeloupe’s history.
The Mirre family can trace their lineage back to 1664 in the Saintes archipelago, where Jean Le Mire was recorded in the census register alongside his wife, two children, a “negro” slave and a servant. Over the centuries, the family has left an indelible mark on the geography of the islands, with the existence of an ‘Anse à Mirre’ bearing witness to their deep roots to this day. Like many Creole families, their history defies simplistic dichotomies. The first generations of settlers owned slaves and were part of the brutal economy of the sugar islands. Some of the family settled on the island of La Désirade. Over time, due to the unequal relationships between colonists and slaves, the family had children of colour who acquired the status of ‘free people of colour’ following the emancipation of slaves around 1848.
Nineteenth-century records show that family members such as Montrose Mirre, the son of Jean Bontan Mirre and the slave Adélaïde Cocote who was freed in 1833, were subsequently recognised as ‘free people of colour’. This dual heritage — being both a descendant of slave-owning colonisers and of slaves — gives Christine Mirre a unique perspective. She can grasp its complexities in her very flesh and blood.
Double punishment
For Christine Mirre, abstention is not merely a diplomatic manoeuvre; it is the continuation of structural denial.
‘When the state refuses to vote for a text calling for reparations, it is telling us that our past as beings not treated as human is only recognised as long as it remains abstract,’ she explains. ‘But as soon as we ask for concrete mechanisms to address the legacy of this suffering, the door slams shut.’ »
In measured but determined terms, she explains what she calls the ‘double punishment’ faced by the descendants of slavery. The first punishment was the crime itself: rupture, exploitation and erasure of identity. The second is the state’s refusal to fully acknowledge the ongoing impact of this trauma.
Christine Mirre’s work at the United Nations focuses particularly on the most serious human rights crises. She was one of the first to raise the alarm about the persecution of the Amhara community in Ethiopia and the devastating impact of the ongoing conflict in Sudan, especially on women. She applies the same rigorous scrutiny to her own country. Through CAP LC, she has exposed the shortcomings of the French state by submitting damning reports to the UN on police violence and institutional barriers that prevent victims of incest and domestic violence from accessing justice. For Mirre, the pattern is the same. The same diplomatic blindness that downplays the suffering of the Amharas or the women of Sudan comes into play when France refuses to confront its history of slavery. This abstention is not an isolated act, but symptomatic of a state that struggles to acknowledge systemic violence, whether in the Horn of Africa or on French soil. It is a deliberate amnesia that has lasted for 25 years.
The inevitability of memory
France’s refusal to vote in favour of the UN resolution is indicative of a deeper malaise. It reveals a nation that is still grappling with its legacy of slavery and is unable to reconcile its image as a universalist republic with the crimes of its past.
Whilst significant, the political stances taken by MPs concerned with France’s slave-trading past often come up against a brick wall. This wall was not erected yesterday. It was constructed 25 years ago when the French parliament decided that truth and justice could be separated.
For human rights defenders such as Christine Mirre, whose family has endured the vicissitudes of Caribbean history for almost four centuries, this abstention is an obstacle. It hinders the vital work of rehabilitation once again. Yet her reaction is not one of sensationalist exploitation. Rather, it is a call for vigilance.
The resolution was adopted without France’s support nonetheless, but France cannot evade this chapter of its history by simply abstaining. There will always be French people like Christine Mirre who are descendants of slaves, carrying the painful history of the overseas islands in their blood and they will make it known in the hope of full recognition by their homeland.
The question remains whether Paris will assume full responsibility for its history and duty of justice towards all its citizens, or continue to shirk its duty of remembrance, justice, and reparation for its past of slavery.
