Ban the niqab

The billboard for female subjugation.

I care about the niqab because I care about women—about freedom, dignity, visibility, and equality. I care about the spaces we all must share and the silent messages that are sent when some women are expected to hide their faces, to efface their identities, while others are not. This isn't a trivial piece of cloth. It is a symbol, a signal, and a system—and it affects us all.

At the individual level, the niqab is often portrayed as a personal choice. But what kind of choice is it when it’s made in the context of intense social pressure, religious indoctrination, or fear of rejection—or worse? What kind of freedom is it that demands a woman cover her face just to be allowed into her own community? A freedom that must be expressed through the erasure of self?

Real freedom means being able to move through the world without hiding. It means being seen, heard, and known. The human face is not obscene. It is not a provocation. It is the centre of our expression, our empathy, and our connection. To cover it is to silence it. And when women are taught that they must be hidden to be respected, what message does that send about their worth?

But this isn’t just about individual women—it’s about all of us. It’s about the kind of society we are creating when we normalise the niqab in public life. When one woman walks down the street with her face covered, it changes the atmosphere for everyone. It signals separation. It breaks the social contract of openness and reciprocity that underpins everyday human interaction. A face is an invitation to relate, to recognise, to connect. When that face is absent, something fundamental is lost.

Human beings rely on facial expressions for understanding and connection. From a simple smile in passing to the subtle cues of empathy, confusion, or kindness—facial expressions are how we bridge differences and build trust. Without access to those cues, everyday interaction becomes awkward, distant, or even tense. And integration suffers. We cannot build a shared civic life when whole segments of the population are masked off from the rest. Integration is not just about language or work—it’s about human connection. And that starts with the face.

Worse, the presence of veiled women can make other women feel exposed by contrast. Suddenly, the simple act of showing your face becomes a statement—one that is sometimes judged as immodest, even shameful. Women who do not cover are subtly, and sometimes explicitly, positioned as lacking virtue. And in communities where the niqab is common, this pressure can become coercion—driving more and more women to conform, not out of belief, but out of fear of being shamed, ostracised, or worse.

This is not multiculturalism. This is not tolerance. It is a gendered system of visual apartheid. And it has consequences. It makes integration harder. It breeds suspicion and division. It teaches girls that their freedom, their presence, their very faces are a problem to be hidden. That is not liberation. That is not feminism. That is not freedom.

And yet, so many women—especially in positions of influence—lack the courage to speak about it. They fear being called racist. They’re paralysed by the anxiety of saying the wrong thing. But I do not share that fear. I will not remain silent.

I speak about the niqab because I do see Muslim women as women—equal, deserving of the same freedoms, protections, and human dignity as every other woman. It is precisely because I reject racism that I will not accept a double standard that leaves Muslim girls to suffer under rules no one would dream of imposing on their non-Muslim peers. Cultural relativism is not progress. It is cowardice dressed up as respect.

The Danger to All Women

The niqab is not just a personal garment. It is a public statement. And the danger it poses is not limited to the woman wearing it. Its presence reverberates outwards, reshaping the expectations placed on every other woman and girl. When some are covered, others are exposed. When concealment is elevated as virtue, visibility becomes vice. This is not a neutral expression of culture—it is a visual reprimand to every woman who chooses to live openly.

This garment is a prison. It is the physical manifestation of a worldview that says a woman’s body, her face, her very presence, must be hidden from men, from strangers, from the world. That she is a source of shame, of temptation, of danger—not a human being but a problem to be concealed. And this ideology, once tolerated, spreads. It fosters environments where girls are raised to believe they are only safe or respectable when invisible. It emboldens those who seek to impose such rules not just in their homes but in schools, workplaces, and on the streets.

I do not say this lightly, but I have come to believe that a nationwide ban on the niqab is the only way to protect women and girls from this creeping authoritarianism. I am usually the first to defend freedom of expression. I will stand up for the right to dissent, to offend, to speak one's truth. But this is a bridge too far. This form of “expression” is not harmless—it is harmful. It undermines the foundations of women's equality, social trust, and democratic society.

There is no freedom in ritualised self-erasure. There is no empowerment in anonymity enforced by theology or family honour. Until anyone can show me a world where women are truly free to remove the niqab without fear of punishment, I will not accept that they are ever truly free to wear it.

We do not allow expressions of racism or sexism to parade as freedom of speech. We do not allow public nudity because it offends the norms of decency and shared social life. Likewise, we should not allow a form of dress that says women must hide to be moral. That message is not decent. It is not equal. And it does not belong in a society that values the visibility and dignity of every citizen.

This is not about Islam. This is about misogyny. This is about refusing to let women's oppression be repackaged as empowerment. The niqab may be worn by a minority of women, but the impact of tolerating it falls on us all. It’s a symbol of gender apartheid that has no place in our streets, our schools, our public life.

Let’s be clear: the niqab is not a fashion choice. It is a billboard for female subjugation. And until we have the courage to say so, openly and unapologetically, we will continue to betray the very women and girls we claim to protect.

Enough. Let’s draw the line. For the sake of women’s freedom, we must reject this symbol of our erasure—once and for all.