Wearing My Keffiyeh: An Act of Resistance & Solidarity

This post is part of my 3DR newsletter where I share what I’m (un)learning to build just futures. It centres around my 3DR approach to equity: Decolonize. Disrupt. Dismantle. Rebuild. If you approach the world with curiosity and you’re looking for courageous and compassionate conversations around social justice and collective liberation, subscribe to my newsletter.

Over the last few months, I’ve added a new garment to my wardrobe that I wear proudly on a near daily basis. It’s the keffiyeh.

For those unfamiliar, the keffiyeh is a traditional headscarf worn in the Middle East. It was originally (and still is) used as a practical and protective covering against sunburn, dust, and sand in the extreme and arid desert climate of the region. It was historically worn by the peasantry, while the fez or tarboush, a red felt hat, was worn by urban, middle- and upper-class Palestinians. But this distinction fell apart in the 1930s when Palestinians unified against British colonial rule and all classes began to wear the keffiyeh, becoming a symbol of political resistance and Palestinian nationalism.

This symbolism deepened throughout the decades with the growing Palestinian resistance movement and was popularized by Yasser Arafat, the chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organization, who wore it always and everywhere. The keffiyeh was also worn by revolutionary figures like Nelson Mandela and Fidel Castro – who were opposed to Israel’s apartheid against the Palestinian people – further entrenching its significance. This black and white scarf has a long and complicated history that I highly recommend you read more about here.

Today, the keffiyeh is worn internationally by Palestinians and supporters of their cause for liberation and sovereignty. Over the last few months, I’ve seen tens of thousands of people marching the streets of Toronto and all around the globe while wearing this beautiful symbol of resistance in solidarity.

But while this garment is a powerful symbol of resistance and freedom, the keffiyeh has also been maliciously branded by the West as a symbol of terrorism and the threat of violence. Just pay attention to how terrorists are portrayed in mainstream media in movies, television, and pop culture. A cursory Google image search of the word "terrorist” will tell you everything you need to know.

Wearing a keffiyeh has led to criminalization, employment and academic repercussions, and even outright violence. Last November, three Palestinian college students were shot in Burlington, Vermont, in what is being investigated as a potential hate crime as two of the young men were wearing keffiyehs. In Toronto, we’ve seen discriminatory behaviour by the police against protestors wearing the scarf. A friend of mine was told that she could not wear her keffiyeh when walking the stage to receive her diploma for her graduation at the University of Toronto. And these are just a very few examples.

In fact, as I write this, I’m getting news alerts of the Ontario legislature banning the garment not just in the chamber but in the entire building itself in a clear attempt to suppress Palestinian cultural and national identity, as well as pro-Palestinian voices.

As Independent Member of Provincial Parliament for Hamilton Centre Sarah Jama writes in her statement:

As Israel's genocide in Gaza and the West Bank continues, we see attempts to demonize and suppress every aspect of Palestinian identity here in Ontario. Students are reprimanded for wearing keffiyehs at school, racist zionist groups continue to equate Palestinian identity to terrorism with little or no pushback from people in power, those who do speak out in solidarity are slandered and silenced, all while police violence escalates to repress the people using their voices to demand peace: these are ways in which our so-called liberal society creates space for fascism to take charge.

…History shows and will continue to show that attempts to ban cultural identity and cultural symbols only strengthens movements of resistance. We must always be vigilant in a society that continuously bans cultural identity—especially those identities that represent resistance and a threat to a status quo that fails them.

And so, I wear my keffiyeh as a seemingly simple but undeniably powerful gesture of resistance and solidarity.

Recognizing my privilege and channeling it through solidarity

While I might talk a big talk about wearing this scarf, I should be clear that every time I wear my keffiyeh, I make a quick calculation in my mind about my safety. As a woman of colour, I am almost always aware of my safety moving through a densely populated city, but never have I ever been more vigilant than when I step outside wearing my keffiyeh.

It has been an eye-opening experience these last few months to understand – on a real, visceral, and tangible level – the privilege of not having any part of my cultural, national, or religious dress villanized by mainstream society. It has been a new experience for me to suddenly have to think about what I am wearing – not from a gendered POV, at least – and how that might be perceived and how that might affect how I move throughout the day.

It is a strange experience to suddenly have to consider this, and it is infuriating to know that so many Palestinians have had to contend with this threat to their safety every day of their lives.

Just last month, I was on public transit en route to a solidarity gathering of Filipinos United 4 Palestine wearing my keffiyeh and my Free Palestine toque. A woman hopped on the streetcar and was looking at me with such interest. Finally, she sat in front of me and asked, “Are you Palestinian? You’re wearing the keffiyeh and hat.” I was wary at first, trying to assess her politics (or more accurately, her humanity) and afraid that I would be harassed for wearing my support so boldly. “No, but I support a free Palestine,” I responded defiantly, ready for pushback.

She was in awe and explained to me that she herself is Palestinian. She shared that she stopped wearing her keffiyeh because the last time she wore it, a man spit on her. She expressed her fear of being targeted in this way and the shame she felt for that fear. She thanked me for supporting the Palestinian cause for liberation and told me I was brave for being so open with my support.

While I wasn’t entirely surprised, I was still so enraged to hear of her experience. I told her it was easy for me to be “brave” when it isn’t personal for me in the same way that it is for her. It’s easy for me to be “brave” when I have some distance to the issue, when my own identity, history, lineage, and ancestry aren’t being spat on, figuratively and literally.

I read somewhere recently that "your privilege isn’t something to be ashamed of, it is a blanket you are called on to wrap around as many people as you can.” And so, I am trying to channel my privilege into this blanket – or into my keffiyeh rather – that I can wrap around as many people as I can.

And that includes many of the young students that I have the privilege of sharing space with through my work with Living Hyphen.

Validating the experiences of the next generation

I’ve been working with the Peel District School Board in Ontario to facilitate storytelling workshops for newcomer and immigrant students. One day, I was walking through the schoolyard to get to my classroom when I noticed a group of young girls running towards me and squealing with absolute delight. “Miss, miss! You’re wearing a keffiyeh?” They were in disbelief. “Of course!” I smiled encouragingly.

When I got to the classroom, one of the students’ eyes lit up as soon as she saw me. “I have the same scarf! But I keep it in my backpack…” she said with trepidation. I told her how I love my scarf, how I’ve been going to protests in support of Palestine, and encouraged her to wear her scarf during our class, if she felt comfortable. I could see the shift in her demeanour instantly.

In so many of the classrooms I’ve been working in these last few months, students have been incredulous and just so curious to see a non-Muslim and non-Arab person wearing a keffiyeh at the front of their classroom. It has opened up so many beautiful conversations with students about their experiences, their families, and their ancestral histories that I don’t think they would have so readily shared had it not been for this symbol of solidarity. I know it meant a lot to these students to have a teacher validate their experiences and beliefs.

Wearing my keffiyeh has never felt more important and meaningful than when I wear it in the classroom. It has been such a profound spark for connection and has brought me infinitely closer to these students. At a time when it can feel so scary to speak out for what is right, wearing this beautiful black and white scarf has grounded me in my values and serves as a daily reminder of my commitment to equity, justice, and our shared liberation.

This is your sign to wear your keffiyeh

I write all of this today amid rising suppression of Palestinian national identity and pro-Palestinian voices advocating for total liberation. Everywhere around the world, we are seeing governments crack down on our right to protest and exercise our fundamental freedoms.

We have seen this kind of racism before. No, let me be more precise: we have seen this genocide before. We know how the colonial government in Canada outlawed Indigenous traditional dress, ceremonies, and other cultural practices. We know how this story plays out and we cannot allow it to happen again. Never again means never again for anyone.

If you are ever feeling scared or doubting whether or not to wear your keffiyeh, let this be your sign to do it. It is an important and easy way for us to disrupt these systems of oppression and show our solidarity in the midst of the horrors of genocide.

Here’s to wrapping around our blankets of privilege around as many people as we can!

Additional resources to learn about the keffiyeh