A row over using English in universities has blown up in France, where language is at the heart of the national identity

The front page of Libération, one of France's leading dailies, was printed entirely in English on Tuesday. "Let's do it," ran the banner headline. Sounding like a Nike slogan penned by Cole Porter, it in fact referred to a new bill, which, if passed, would allow some university courses to be taught in English.

Inside the paper (and in French), the editorialists urged their compatriots to "stop behaving like the last representatives of a besieged Gaulish village". The nod to Asterix – the diminutive comic-strip hero who punches above his weight thanks to his cunning and occasional swigs of magic potion – is highly significant. For decades, France has identified with the plucky denizens of Asterix's village, the last corner of Gaul to hold out against Roman invasion. This is how the French fancy themselves: besieged but unbowed – a kind of Gallic take on the Blitz spirit.

The reason Uderzo and Goscinny's books resonated at the time of their publication is that they replayed the myth of French resistance in the context of the cold war. This time around the invaders were no longer German or Roman, but American. Asterix's first outing (in a long-defunct magazine called Pilote) occurred in 1959, the year Charles de Gaulle became president, and grammarian Max Rat coined the word "franglais". My contention is that this is not purely coincidental.

France's identity has long been bound up with its language, more so possibly than anywhere else. This may be due to the fact that French is treated as a top-down affair, policed by the state: an affaire d'état, if you will. Language, for instance, is at the heart of the Organisation Mondiale de la Francophonie, France's answer to the Commonwealth. The flipside of a state-sponsored language has been a deep-rooted anxiety over linguistic decay and decline. The official custodian of the French tongue – the Académie française – was partly created, back in 1635, to counter pernicious Italian influences.

French nationalism was largely discredited after the second world war, because of the Vichy regime and collaboration. As a result, it often took refuge in cultural – particularly linguistic – concerns. De Gaulle's inflammatory 1967 speech in Quebec, when he took the linguistic battle into the very heart of enemy territory, speaks volumes. "Long live free Quebec! Long live French Canada! And long live France!" declaimed de Gaulle (en français dans le texte, of course). Quebec was repositioned as a besieged Gaulish village, and French as a symbol of resistance – perhaps even as a surrogate magic potion. For de Gaulle, liberating Quebec meant reversing France's defeat at the hands of the English in 1763.

My feeling is that France is haunted by its lost American future. Had the US fallen under Gallic domination, French would probably be the world's lingua franca today. Fears over the decline of French vis-à-vis English are exacerbated by the knowledge that the enemy is also within. Although the linguistic watchdogs regularly come up with alternatives to anglicisms – "mercatique" for "marketing"; "papillon" for "Post-it note" – American expressions are often adopted with far more enthusiasm in France than across the Channel. David Brooks's portmanteau word bobo (bourgeois bohemian) is more ubiquitous here than in Britain. Even more worrying, perhaps, is the French penchant for unwittingly redefining ("hype" for "hip") or making up new English expressions (brushing, footing, fooding etc.).

The unregulated flexibility of English probably gives it an extra edge in our ever-shifting digital world. As Susan Sontag once pointed out, French is "a language that tends to break when you bend it". It is significant that many young French speakers today should suddenly switch to English when writing a mél or courriel (if you'll pardon my French) to a friend.

So what is all the fuss about right now? The higher education minister, Geneviève Fioraso, wants to amend the 1994 Toubon law so that French universities are allowed to teach a limited number of courses in English (which is already the case in the elite grandes écoles and top private business schools). The main aim of this is to attract foreign students, particularly from rapidly expanding economies such as China, India, or Brazil.

Unfortunately, Fioraso committed an unforgivable faux pas – on a par with Sarkozy's disparaging comments about the Princess of Cleves – when the idea was first mooted in March. She warned that if teaching in English were not introduced, French research would eventually mean "five Proust specialists sitting around a table". This led to accusations of philistinism on the part of those who believe that sitting around a table discussing the works of Proust is precisely what being French is all about.

Not surprisingly, reactions have been far more favourable in the scientific community than in literary circles. The Académie française is up in arms over what it sees as "linguistic treason". Prominent academic and author Antoine Compagnon fears that the measure may lead to dumbing down, since most of these lectures would be spoken in "Globish" rather than the true language of Shakespeare. Bernard Pivot, who used to host a top literary TV programme (and belongs to the Académie), argues that French will become a dead language if it relies on English borrowings to describe the modern world. Claude Hagège, a renowned linguist, concurs, saying that France's very identity is at stake.

Roland Barthes famously described language as essentially "fascist", not because it censors but, on the contrary, because it forces us to think and say certain things. The idea that we are spoken by language as much as we speak through it is, I think, an important one here: French offers a different world view from English. Today, the symbol of British sovereignty is an independent currency. In France, it is an independent language, and that is indeed something to be cherished.

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My recent experience at Dartmouth College has shown me that we are still not the society we want to be

Like many universities, Dartmouth College has venerated traditions. The annual Dimensions show – a festive, student-organized musical revue performed to entice admitted, but undecided, students to come to Dartmouth – is one such tradition. Many prospective students decide to attend Dartmouth because of how much they enjoy the performance.

On 19 April, a group of students calling themselves "#Realtalk" interrupted the show, protesting sexual assault, racism, and homophobia at the university. It was a real jolt for the campus community. President Carol Folt cancelled classes on 24 April for the first time since the mid-1980s due to the backlash: a barrage of rape and death threats on social media sites and internet forums. The ugliness and volume of these threats – not to mention the negative PR – convinced the administration that the school was in a state of crisis.

In place of its usual academic schedule, we had a day of reflection that entailed a rally on the college green and a series of facilitated discussions. But even that was not enough to heal us. The school faces a possible Title IX complaint by students and alums who claim that Dartmouth fosters a hostile environment to women, racial minorities, and LGBT students.

Dartmouth is not alone. Similar problems and complaints at Oberlin College, Swarthmore College, Occidental, and Amherst show that Dartmouth is not alone in believing that the campus fosters respect and care for all, when, in reality, it might not. This isn't a Dartmouth problem. It is an American problem.

We are often too fragmented, insular, and uncaring – excluding those who don't fit into our perception of ourselves. At a time when basic American civic responsibilities from voting to jury duty to paying taxes are perceived as burdensome, it should be no surprise that lethargy about cross community dialogue manifests itself at Dartmouth (or any other college campus).

The "#Realtalk" protestors at my school speak for a larger constituency of students who find Dartmouth's traditions, which are both reinvented and reinforced with each incoming class, unhealthy and destructive. The protests and backlash expose our basic tensions. Can Dartmouth shed its more damaging aspects while still remaining Dartmouth? I argue that it can.

College culture introduces many opportunities for inclusivity through personal interactions. After being rejected from the Greek house (aka fraternity) to which I felt affiliated, I adopted a sorority as my house, flippantly joking that I was a "sister" and planned on attending the organization's events uninvited. The women rejected my attempts to get involved. While it was a humorous circumstance, it reminded me that even students aware of social problems unconsciously reinforce our community's deepest sexist assumptions.

We need to listen to each other if we truly are committed to the stakes of "real talk". At this moment, the Dartmouth community is a series of fragmented groups, for example, athletes and members of the Greek community. There are very few shared notions of mutual care.

I am not excusing myself. I don't have concern for community members who operate in circles I perceive as hostile to gays, minorities, and women. Should I care enough to feel a sense of accountability and engage insular communities in dialogue? I absolutely must.

Like many colleges, Dartmouth has a Principle of Community that expects students to respect one another. We passively assume that respect happens. If care were explicitly questioned on campus, then students would engage in discussing these issues consistently and with respect. We would understand criticism as an act of caring and a form of investment, rather than separation. The issues that the protestors mentioned should instigate outrage within every community member, but they haven't.

The Dartmouth motto, vox clamantis in deserto – a voice crying out in the wilderness – is old, yet highly relevant. The protests were a cry in the wilderness, but one that many students did not want to hear. Once we as a student body admit that the presence of care has become a question, then there is an incentive to start to care. We can turn stigma into leadership by making what people recognize as problematic the basis for social transformation.

It is not that Dartmouth students don't care about racism, rape, and homophobia, but the assumed tolerance makes change impossible. Singling out certain fraternities as racist or the protestors as anti-Dartmouth will not move us to a place of social transformation. We are all racist – or sexist, or homophobic – in ways we won't, or can't, acknowledge. We have begun these tough conversations, and I am optimistic that our campus and others can prove that caring is true to those "old traditions".

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The view from Berlin, where I now work, is that the UK has lots to envy – but probably not our self-destructive streak

I remember the moment I realised I really liked Britain. It was in New York, where I was living at the time. The news came through that a man dressed as Osama bin Laden had broken into the birthday party of the heir to the throne. Aaron Barschak had not only walked through security but he had climbed on stage next to the prince. The accounts got ever more colourful (and perhaps fanciful). It was said that the "comedy terrorist" had been directed by a policeman through Windsor Castle: It's just down there, Sir, first on the left.

In America, this would have been a matter of great seriousness. The news anchors would have pulled on their "nation in crisis" masks. The newspapers would have pontificated, and reached for the pompous font. A national debate about the security of the nation would have ensued. Barschak would have been banged up for life, if he hadn't been shot in the first place. But in Britain this audacious breacher of security became something of a national hero.

His fooling of authority was what made him so endearing. The British put the matter in its proper perspective. Irreverence and self-deprecating humour seemed very attractive to outsiders looking in.

The snag is that in Britain these and other strengths rarely seem so clear. We don't appreciate our own virtues. In the rightwing press the relentless view is that the country has gone to the dogs. A once great nation has been sold out to immigrants and scroungers. On the left "Why can't we be like Sweden?" has now been replaced by "Why can't we be like Germany?", as a recent New Statesman cover story had it. On these pages, Martin Kettle recently wrote:

Germany is a greener society. It has a fairer voting system. A cautious, though toughening, approach to military action. Respect for – no, love of – the arts. An often serious press. A readiness to speak other languages than their own. And – glory be – it is a society that doesn't live in the imperial past and has managed to get over the war.

To me, writing from Berlin, this view seems like a distortion. Of course Germany gets lots of things right – which country wouldn't want the countless small manufacturing companies that give employment in every German town you visit. They make and sell everything from the glue that goes into credit cards to big industrial cranes. Families through the generations have continued making things, unswayed by fad but also adaptable and able to change as necessary.

But – smoke this in your British moaner's pipe – the arts are vibrant in London. If you want to be jolted into thought or laughter or moved to tears, go to the National Theatre (or any other of the countless playhouses where drama thrives). It is true that opera in Germany is revered: Berlin has three opera companies of stature. But the houses aren't always full: maybe if their money were a bit tighter they would drive harder for fuller houses.

While in Germany the arts are often for the elite, in Britain there is a much stronger sense of art for the people: we blur the distinctions between high art and popular culture and it makes for a vibrant, mongrel mix.

Or what about this British envy of the German education system. In Germany, the system doesn't look so grand. Germans moan about how those who don't make the grade and get to a Gymnasium (the equivalent of a grammar school) are thrown on the scrapheap, discarded to low-grade jobs or no jobs at all.

And don't talk to a German academic about the shortage of funds for universities. They will tell you how the block against charging fees means shabby buildings and overfilled classes. As you moan into your lukewarm tea about how "Germany does it better", think of all those British world-class universities and wonder why they don't exist in Germany. Some German academics say fees are the way towards the excellence they see elsewhere.

The upshot of all this is not to decry Germany – it gets lots of things right – but to wonder why the British seem so intent on denigrating Britain. There seems to be, looking first from New York and now Berlin, a crisis of confidence among the British people.

We are a nation of moaners, and that can be fine – a good moan can be enjoyable in a dark sort of way. It indicates a healthy scepticism.

But it can also be destructive. You don't always need to believe your own moaning. A good moan can be self-fulfilling. Thinking something won't work means it might well not work. When I returned to Britain from working in the United States, the BBC was about to set up a television service for Iran. Infected with naive enthusiasm from my years in America, I immediately thought: "Brilliant. What a great idea" – only to find that the Brits around were shaking their heads and listing all the reasons it just wasn't going to work.

If the moaners had won, we wouldn't have got the Persian service of the BBC – or the Olympics. In Germany people still talk with awe about the atmosphere at that opening ceremony – the nice mixture of grand spectacle and humour. We all enjoy a good moan – but we shouldn't let it get us down. There's a lot not to moan about – maybe even to raise a smile.

Oscar-winner attacks council decision to order Central School of Speech and Drama in London to remove hoardings that support charitable work

Dame Judi Dench has come to the defence of the drama school where she learned her Oscar-winning craft.

The London borough of Camden has banned two advertising hoardings outside the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama on supposedly aesthetic grounds.

The Central says that it receives up to £150,000 a year from advertisers using the sites, which it donates to theatre charities involving thousands of young people nationwide, and that there have been no complaints since they went up 27 years ago. An appeal to the secretary of state will be heard on Tuesday.

Dench, widely regarded as the finest actress of her generation, has written a passionate letter to the council in which she expresses dismay at the removal of "a vital source of revenue" to theatre and arts education.

Noting that Camden itself has withdrawn funding from various arts and social programmes, she writes: "To penalise this independent goodwill at such a time of recessionary hardship seems misguided."

She refers to "the considerable benefit" from the hoardings, singling out £50,000 given annually to the Shakespeare Schools Festival, which reaches 1,000 schools across Britain and involves 50,000 children – "many from deprived areas," including Camden. The hoardings have also provided funds for disadvantaged youths involved with the Roundhouse and a "black theatre" summer school.

The Central, in north-west London, is one of the UK's most prestigious drama schools. Its alumni include Laurence Olivier, Vanessa Redgrave and Peggy Ashcroft. The hoardings also fund bursaries for future Oliviers.

Dench's letter mentions her family's long association with the Central, "one of the finest centres of drama training and research in the UK". She and family members, including her daughter, live in the area or are studying there. "Therefore," she says, "I feel that I can also comment on grounds of planning and local aesthetic value." Calling for Camden "to reconsider its action", she adds: "The alternative will diminish the borough's effectiveness as a centre for the arts, and narrow the scope for its young people to participate in the theatre."

Professor Gavin Henderson, the school's principal, said that the money from the hoardings was crucial. It helped to support the neighbouring Hampstead theatre's educational programmes after the council withdrew funding: "Camden council has … cut back on all their arts funding to a point where it's virtually nonexistent. But their planning department [has been] … looking at hoardings that they don't like aesthetically… [and] issued orders for these to come down."

The two electronic hoardings are displayed against a nondescript modern building owned by the Central and overlook a busy traffic route. Henderson is all the more surprised by the aesthetic argument, because Camden's real eye-sores go unnoticed: "The council is quite happy to have hugely unsightly rubbish and recycling bins located immediately beneath these hoardings, with vermin running in and out. Rats. None of that registers at all and that's in their domain, not ours."

Other objectors refer to Camden market, where the council permits "ugly" advertising eyesores to deface classic Victorian houses and shops.

The Central has received further support from Dame Jenny Abramsky, chair of the Heritage Lottery Fund, former head of BBC Radio and a board member of the Shakespeare Schools Festival: "Government … is urging universities and arts organisations to do more to attract funding from the private sector in these times of grave economic restraint. These hoardings are an unusual and original example of a higher education and arts institution doing just that. They should be applauded."

Valerie Leach, Camden's cabinet member for planning, said: "Camden council is one of the biggest supporters in the country of our local voluntary sector. This delivers a range of arts projects. We have a duty … to protect … local areas from hoardings without any formal planning permission, such as this site."

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