The streets of Paris are simmering tonight, not with the usual heat of a summer evening, but with a cold, hard fury. A 12-year-old girl, Lola, is dead, and the man suspected of her murder had been released from custody despite a string of prior convictions. The French public is asking a question that cuts to the bone: how did this happen?
As the details emerge, the story takes an even more bitter turn. The suspect, a 44-year-old Algerian national, had been deported to his home country after serving time for drug trafficking. But he returned, legally, and was living under strict judicial supervision when he allegedly committed this unthinkable crime. The failure of the system to protect a child has ignited a national debate about immigration, policing, and the very fabric of French justice.
And then comes the comparison that has made this story a transatlantic lightning rod. British politicians, notably from the Conservative benches, have been quick to point to the UK’s handling of similar cases. They cite the murder of Damilola Taylor, the 10-year-old Nigerian boy killed in London in 2000, whose killer was convicted and jailed for life. The contrast, they argue, is stark. The French system, they claim, is too lenient, too entangled in human rights concerns, too slow to deport foreign nationals who pose a threat.
On the ground, the mood is very different. In the working-class suburbs of Paris, where Lola lived, there is a sense of betrayal. People I spoke to described a feeling that the state has abandoned them. ‘We lock up our children at night, but we can’t lock up the criminals,’ one mother told me, her voice shaking. The local school, where Lola was a pupil, has become a shrine of flowers and soft toys, a silent protest against a system that failed.
But is the UK system really a model? Let’s not be fooled. The British justice system has its own scars. The case of the murder of 12-year-old Anastasia, or the unsolved deaths of countless children in the UK, should give us pause. Spare us the smugness. The truth is every Western democracy struggles with balancing the rights of the accused with the safety of the public. The difference is that in France, the consequence feels more immediate, more visceral.
What we are witnessing here is not just a legal failure. It is a cultural shift. The French have long prided themselves on their principles of liberty and equality, enshrined in the Republic’s motto. But these principles are now being tested by a public that demands protection above all else. The far-right, which has long campaigned on precisely this platform, is gaining ground. The mayor of the town where Lola lived has called for a referendum on the reintroduction of the death penalty, a move that would have been unthinkable a decade ago.
The human cost is incalculable. A family has been destroyed. A community is traumatized. And the wider French society is questioning its own values. The UK, for all its faults, may be seen as having a tougher stance on foreign national offenders. But ask any family that has lost a child to violent crime in Britain, and they will tell you that no system can ever be truly just. The anger in France is raw and real, and it’s not about to dissipate. This is a story about the fragility of the social contract, and how quickly it can shatter when a child’s life is taken.
