It’s hard to imagine a piece of clothing more politicised and controversial than the hijab – and as someone who has chosen to cover their hair for over a decade, I know this more than most.
Lately, as the temperature has plummeted here in the UK, we have seen fashion trends steer towards ways to look cool whilst keeping warm, and a major contender has been the knitted hood, balaclava or bonnet. It feels like they are everywhere. All the high street shops are stocking them; all the coolest influencers seem to be wearing them, and they were commonplace in all the world’s fashion weeks in 2024.
Unsurprisingly, Depop has reported a 398% spike in searches for knitted hoods since July, and a quick look at knitted products on Etsy reveals them as a top trending item.
Here’s the thing: they are nothing more than hijabs made of wool, concealing the hair and neck just like Muslim women have been doing for centuries. But given how opinionated everyone seems to be about the hijab – from states and governments to feminist movements and political parties – where’s all the fuss about women suddenly covering their heads in the name of fashion or simply staying warm in the cold? And when is a head covering a controversial garment – even oppressive and patriarchal in the eyes of some – and when does it become fashion-forward and edgy?
Since choosing to wear the hijab at the age of fifteen, I have faced endless discrimination for being visibly Muslim. It has impacted me in job interviews, at times rendered me unsafe in public and even ended what I thought would be lifelong friendships. I have faced physical threats of violence, had racist remarks hurled at me on the street, and encountered judgemental glares whenever I leave the house – all because I cover my hair on a daily basis.
As I explore in my book Veiled Threat: on being visibly Muslim in Britain (which came out last January), Muslim women in headscarves like me face a double threat of misogyny and Islamophobia in one. Our hijabs make us a foreign threat to be policed and outcast but also subservient victims in need of saving. This constant criticism and judgement is exhausting and damaging.
Watching the very reason we are under attack become this season’s ‘it’ item cements a chilling fact for me: It was never about how much of our hair is covered. It’s about whose head is being covered in the first place.
One of the most common criticisms hijab-wearing women face is that we cannot possibly have chosen to cover our hair and bodies ourselves – apparently, we must be brainwashed by an outdated patriarchal religion or a controlling father or husband. I’ve even had strangers on the bus come and tell me I don’t need to wear ‘that’ in Britain because women are ‘free here’.
As such, mainstream feminism has long pitted itself at odds with Muslim women who cover – seeing us as the ultimate anti-feminists. Think about the feminist celebrities who cut off their hair in solidarity with women removing their hijabs in Iran while offering nothing but tumbleweed silence to those fighting to keep them on in places like France.
But why are women in knitted balaclavas never seen to be victims of misogyny imprisoned in a cloth prison the way hijab-wearing women are? Ultimately, it comes down to how white Western women are presumed to be able to make their own autonomous bodily decisions. Muslim women, on the other hand, are so dehumanised on every level – constantly someone’s victim or someone’s threat – that the choice to cover is never seen as truly our own.
This hypocrisy is seen elsewhere, too. Whether it’s Kim Kardashian being praised for being subversive and quirky for wearing an all-black outfit that covered her entire body (including her face) at the 2021 Met Gala when Muslim women face criminal penalties for dressing like that in many Western countries, or Hailey Bieber being idolised for styling a silk headscarf in a way that Muslim grandmas have been doing for time immemorial. Head coverings are seen as demure and classy when on the heads of history’s beauty icons like Audrey Hepburn, but somehow never when donned by Muslim women.
The irony is that I actually like the trend. Many Muslim women (me included) have been wearing knitted balaclavas too in these colder times, grateful for a way to keep our ears extra toasty while following our faith. And seeing more covered heads in places where it was once taboo even feels like it takes the heat off us a little. But every time I see one, I can’t help but feel the sting of the Islamophobic double standards that follow us wherever we go. If it’s cool to cover if your name is Kim, but oppressive if you’re called Khadija then what does that say?
It has always been more about using Muslim women’s bodies as a battleground for Islamophobic narratives than the garment itself.