Appropriation, Allyship Or Antisemitism? What Wearing The Keffiyeh Means Today

By now, you know: calling a dressing gown a kimono or braiding your hair in cornrows could be considered cultural appropriation. But when it comes to the keffiyeh—a headdress traditionally worn by men in parts of the Middle East and whose sales have surged in the past year, both in the region and the diaspora—have the rules shifted?

For Palestinians specifically, the keffiyeh has been a symbol of identity and resistance since the 1930s. As Wafa Ghnaim, a Palestinian dress historian, researcher, author, archivist, curator, educator, and embroideress, explains, its roots lie in practicality. “The keffiyeh, also known as the hatta, was, for example, worn by Bedouin men to protect against the desert’s harsh elements.”

Eventually, the scarf’s pattern—famous for its black-and-white checks—became a rallying symbol during the 1930s Arab Revolt against British colonial rule. “It transformed into a uniform of resistance and solidarity,” says Ghnaim, who is also the founder of the Tatreez Institute, which stewards a collection of more than 180 traditional dresses and headdresses from the Middle East rescued from estates, households, vintage shops, and even dumpsters around the world. “It was no longer just practical; it was political.”

Fast forward to today, and the keffiyeh’s meaning has taken on broader significance, stretching beyond its roots—and beyond the region it comes from. Following the recent resurgence of violence between Israel and Hamas, sales of the keffiyeh soared by 75% on platforms like Amazon (problematic, as we’ll see), as people don the scarf to express solidarity with Palestinians.

For some, it’s a powerful act of allyship. For others, it raises various red flags. Janice Deul, publicist, fashion/culture activist, and founder of @diversity_rules, says cultural appropriation has become a buzzword in recent years, especially in fashion. “It happens when elements of a culture are taken without understanding or respecting the history and significance behind them,” she explains.

In the case of the keffiyeh, she believes there’s a fine line between allyship and appropriation. “If people are wearing it without knowing its history or treating it as just another accessory, it dilutes its meaning.”

Morgan Cooper, founder of Ramallah-based Handmade Palestine, which works with local, mainly female artisans bringing their creations, including handcrafted jewelry, gift items, and keffiyehs, to international consumers, echoes this sentiment. “When I first came to Palestine [from the U.S.] 20 years ago, I never saw anyone outside the region wearing a keffiyeh. Now, you can find it everywhere,” she says, adding that she does feel concern over how the keffiyeh has become a fashion statement for some. “If you’re wearing it in solidarity, that’s great, but when it’s used purely for style, that’s where cultural appropriation begins.”

For Justin Chow, a University of Toronto graduate in religion and psychology, the keffiyeh evokes a complex mix of emotions. “It’s more than just a symbol tied to the Palestinian cause,” says Chow, who is allyship advisor at Allied Voices for Israel and co-founder of United Against Antisemitism. “For some non-Arab Westerners, especially Gen Z, it has morphed into a broader political statement—almost like wearing a pride flag or a Black Lives Matter pin. But the keffiyeh carries heavy associations, especially with figures like Yasser Arafat and the Palestine Liberation Organization.”

Chow, who is not Jewish, admits that seeing someone wearing the keffiyeh can make him feel a mixture of unease and caution. “I don’t assume the worst about everyone who wears it—many genuinely want peace for Palestinians. But when I see someone wearing it, I wonder: do they fully understand the deep and painful history it carries? Or are they wearing it to provoke fear?”

Jill Schneiderman, an editorial director from Toronto, shares similar feelings. “As a Jewish woman … before October 7, I didn’t have a strong reaction to the keffiyeh. But since the attacks, it has taken on a more intimidating presence,” she says. “I see it now at protests, and it feels less like cultural appropriation and more like cultural intimidation.”

Indeed, one of the challenges with cultural symbols like the keffiyeh is the blurring of boundaries between appropriation and allyship. Some argue that wearing the keffiyeh in solidarity with Palestinians should be celebrated, as long as it’s done respectfully. “Solidarity isn’t just a form of self-care; it’s an active verb,” says Ghnaim. “If you’re going to wear the keffiyeh, you need to be prepared to stand up for its history and significance.”

Deul, too, warns that many people engage in what she calls “performative activism.” “Wearing a keffiyeh is not enough,” she says. “If you truly want to support the Palestinian cause, you need to act, speak out … not just wear a scarf.”

As alluded to earlier, the commercialization of the keffiyeh has further complicated its meaning. The rise in sales has attracted not only individuals expressing solidarity but also fashion brands and celebrities eager to capitalize on the trend (luxury goods maker Louis Vuitton, for example, sold a version of the keffiyeh in 2021, and, several weeks ago, Justin Bieber was photographed in Los Angeles wearing what appeared to be a keffiyeh).

Cooper, who supports traditional Palestinian artisans, is troubled by the commercialization of such a significant cultural symbol. “For some, it’s become less about supporting Palestinians and more about profiting from their heritage,” she says.

Despite concerns over appropriation, the keffiyeh’s role in global solidarity movements cannot be ignored. Hazami Barmada, a former United Nations official, described wearing the scarf as a “superpower” that reconnects her with her Palestinian heritage. “It’s a symbolic link to children in Gaza, but wearing it also attracts verbal abuse,” she told one Reuters journalist.

Ghnaim agrees, pointing to several violent attacks in the U.S. on individuals who were wearing the keffiyeh. However, it also cannot be ignored that some, like interior designer and Toronto-based television personality Shai Deluca, feel wary—and disagree. “As an Israeli Jew, I see the keffiyeh … as having evolved into a contentious emblem of political totalitarianism,” he says, adding that, to his understanding, the keffiyeh was “once a symbol of regional identity, co-opted from the Sudra—a rectangular piece of cloth that has been worn as a headdress, scarf or neckerchief in ancient Jewish tradition.”

Ghnaim opposes this, saying, “It’s funny how Israel, many times in history, attempted to take that scarf as their own, and then when they failed, and we continued to wear it, and it has grown in its meaning, it’s now suddenly a form of intimidation.”

This plurality—where the keffiyeh is simultaneously a symbol of solidarity, a target for hate, and a perceived tool for intimidation—reflects the broader complexities of using cultural symbols in political contexts. In the case of the keffiyeh, it’s clear that whether worn as a sign of support or misunderstood as a fashion statement, its impact is felt deeply by those connected to its history.

Indeed, the keffiyeh is far more than just a piece of cloth; as Deul says, “This isn’t a matter that’s black and white.” For some, it represents resistance, identity, and hope. For others, it stirs feelings of unease and division. In a world where fashion and politics often collide, the keffiyeh stands at the crossroads of appropriation and allyship. And, whether it is worn in the streets at protests or the runways of fashion shows, it will spark conversations about culture, identity, and responsibility. —Noa Nichol