Modesty or Masculinity? How the West Misreads Muslim Femininity

Jannah Kamaly, BA International Relations and History

From school corridors to the streets of Britain, the hijab continues to be an object of contestation. More often than not, oppression is the first word that comes to mind. However, for many young Muslim girls, it is not the hijab that restricts them, but the nature of Western institutions that fail to accommodate Muslim identity and alternative expressions of femininity. Growing up visibly Muslim, I very quickly learnt that I was not simply wearing a piece of fabric on my head, I was a walking symbol of difference.

Attending a predominantly white, all-girls school in Greater London, I experienced the consequences firsthand. From continuous questions about why I was wearing trousers instead of the short skirts of the school uniform, to being labelled as a ‘Tom Boy’ just because I happen to be decent at sports, it was relentless. The few hijabis in my school felt this hostility, often having to transform their expressions of femininity through palatable mannerisms, heavier makeup and jewellery, despite strict rules against them. For the average student, shouting in the corridors or speaking loudly in class was understood as normal secondary school behaviour. For us, however, it was seen as unladylike and that we “don’t look like we're ready to learn”, as my Year 9 teacher said. The uniform itself further stripped us of our individuality. I had two other hijabis in my form group, and on countless occasions, we were mistaken for each other. Did we really look that similar, or were we simply the only ones wearing trousers?

You cannot be a SOAS student and not know about Edward Said’s Orientalism. It is compelling to see how the notion of “othering” is so relevant to our day-to-day life and not just confined to coursework. In school, femininity became closely linked to fitted clothing, subdued behaviour, and freshly styled haircuts, making, by contrast, modest dress and the hijab inherently unfeminine. Consequently, the ordinary Muslim girl is now pushed outside of the dominant understanding of femininity, left to question whether they truly belong.  

​The gendered expectation of a young girl is endless: beauty, confidence, and social relationships, to name a few. Now add on societal expectations of the hijab, and the expectations multiply. Ironically, a new paradox emerges. We now see the rise of the ‘vela baddie’ and the importance of a strong ‘face card’; a narrow, aestheticised, and largely unachievable version of what Muslim femininity should look like. This is deeply ironic, since the hijab is designed to protect and honour Muslim women, yet the emergence of a new beauty standard appears. As femininity is illustrated through visual performance in the West, the hijab becomes a disruption: a thorn in the rose bush. In a Western setting, a new string of expectations comes along, leaving young Muslim girls with an impossible paradox: to be modest, yet beautiful; to stand out, but never too much.

​The irony and contradictions continue with the five British values linked to respect and tolerance. If the UK government is truly committed to inclusivity, the idea of neutrality must be reconsidered in a multicultural society. Currently, Muslim femininity feels restrictive, unchangeable and overbearing, and is often mistaken as steering towards masculinity. Therefore, in order to truly achieve these ‘British Values’, the understanding of femininity must be expanded, making space for multiple expressions. Why is it that in Saudi Arabia, wearing an abaya and hijab, I felt at my most feminine, yet the same attire in the UK felt like a weight on my shoulders? This harsh juxtaposition exposes how the burden of Muslim girls does not stem from Islam, but from a UK system that fails to recognise and accept religious femininity without distortion. The hijab does not limit feminine expression; it is simply a different form that the West refuses to accept.