Burkini Wars: The Clash Of Faith And Fashion Looks Different In The Arab World

-Analysis-

CAIRO — On any summer afternoon along Egypt’s glittering North Coast — or across private shores in the Gulf, Jordan’s Dead Sea resorts and even Lebanon’s beaches — a quiet conflict unfolds. It isn’t waged with protest signs or political declarations, but through attire, access and the right to leisure. At the heart of it: the burkini.

The modest swimsuit has, for years, stirred debates around the world. In 2016, France made headlines when several cities banned the burkini, sparking outrage across Europe and beyond. Officials claimed it violated secular values, while critics pointed out the hypocrisy of forcing women to undress in the name of freedom. The controversy laid bare a deeper tension: the discomfort, especially in Western societies, with Muslim women who refuse to conform to dominant cultural aesthetics — whether by covering up or not.

But what happens when the same discomfort emerges from within? In much of the Arab world, the burkini is not merely seen as religious — it is seen as unfashionable, classed, disruptive. Some ultra-conservative Muslim women may reject it altogether, choosing not to swim or opting for full-body coverage closer to the burqa.

On the other end of the spectrum, there are those who view even the burkini as too much — not because it reveals, but because it reminds. It reminds them of a version of Arab identity they’d rather not see reflected.

Swimming wear as a signifier

To many women, the burkini is a solution — an elegant compromise between modesty and mobility, between faith and freedom. But to others, it’s a social threat. In recent years, viral videos from Egypt, the UAE and elsewhere have surfaced of women being barred from resort pools, told their burkinis violate “hygiene,” “aesthetic standards,” or “community rules.” Behind the euphemisms lies a clear message: the burkini does not belong.

At the heart of this exclusion is not a concern for sanitation, but a fear of dissonance. As Egyptian Streets once noted, “the veil has come to represent a lower social class due to its divide from the West at a time when there’s a desire for all that is Western.” In spaces where class is everything, the burkini has become a signifier — of religiosity, yes, but also of being provincial, unrefined, “too Egyptian,” “too conservative,” or simply, too much.

The issue was never cloth. It was always class.

And yet, those doing the excluding are often the same ones who perform cultural pride elsewhere. They fund mosques during Ramadan, quote Mahmoud Darwish in captions and decry Western imperialism. But in social spaces — clubs, weddings, pool parties — the model is not Cairo or Amman or Khartoum. It’s Ibiza. It’s Mykonos. It’s whatever version of “modernity” can be bought and filtered. Even religion is stylized: elegant hijabs, designer burkinis, Western body language. Local market knock-offs? Unwelcome.

When Egyptian influencer Hadia Ghaleb launched her line of luxury modest swimwear, it sold out within hours. The burkinis were not just modest — they were aspirational. They told women: You can be modest, but only if you can afford it. Only if you perform it right. The issue was never cloth. It was always class.

Quiet acts of rebellion

This isn’t just an Egyptian story. In the Gulf, it’s not unusual to see women in head-to-toe black — with Dior heels peeking out. Stories abound of women wearing designer brands under abayas, mixing high fashion with religious conservatism. Elsewhere, women in bikinis face their own kind of judgment, accused of being “too Western,” “too loose,” or worse. The contradiction is not just tolerated. It’s institutionalized.

I’ve experienced this myself — the wary glances, the unspoken disapproval, the mental calculus of where I can and cannot swim. I wear the burkini because it allows me to move freely while staying true to my beliefs. But sometimes, even that feels like too much to ask. The decision to enter a pool can feel like a quiet act of rebellion.

The burkini is a disruption. It reminds everyone that they are not in Saint-Tropez.

In an essay published by Daraj, the burkini is described as part of a broader “engineering of freedom” — a metaphor for how women’s autonomy is granted or denied within invisible walls. “Between the burkini and the bikini lies the farce of freedom,” the author writes. The fabric itself is neutral. What’s not neutral is the gaze that reads it, the culture that rewards or punishes based on how well you perform its expectations.

That gaze, in elite Arab spaces, is fixated on a Western fantasy. Not the pluralism of Paris or the inclusivity of Toronto — but a sanitized, commercialized ideal: Aperol Spritz, sun-kissed skin, deep house music. In that tableau, the burkini is a disruption. It reminds everyone that they are not in Saint-Tropez. It shatters the illusion. And so, it must go.

But at what cost? When a woman is denied access to leisure because of what she wears, it tells her that her body — and by extension, her identity — is wrong. When she is only welcome if she conforms, then her freedom becomes conditional. This is not just a policing of modesty. It’s a policing of meaning.

Reflection of discomfort

The Arab world has never been one thing. Its cultural archives are full of veiled singers, unveiled feminists, hybrid identities and clashing contradictions. The burkini debate is not about modernity or backwardness. It’s about erasure. It’s about rewriting the rules of belonging to fit a narrow script of what “progress” should look like.

Until our societies can hold space for contradiction — for difference — these tensions will persist. The burkini will be banned, not because it offends, but because it reflects. It reflects the discomfort we feel when we see ourselves too clearly, stripped of the filters we’ve applied to become palatable to someone else’s standards.

Women will continue to push back.

And so, amid the thrum of bass music and the clink of cocktail glasses, women will continue to push back. Sometimes they’ll wear the burkini anyway. Sometimes they’ll film the confrontation. Sometimes they’ll just swim somewhere else. But every time, they’ll be doing something more than swimming.

They’ll be reminding us that freedom is not one-size-fits-all, and neither is faith.