BANGLADESH is a land of rivers, tides, and storms. Women here have always moved with the pulse of the delta — planting rice before dawn, carrying water through monsoon rains, leading classrooms and communities, raising voices in the streets. Their dignity was never measured by the width of a scarf or the color of a cloth. And yet today, a simple piece of cloth — the hijab — has been transformed from a symbol of personal modesty into an instrument of political control.
The Qur’an calls for modesty for both men and women. It asks believers to lower their gaze, to guard their dignity, and to dress in ways that do not invite undue attention. Verses like Qur’an 24:31 and 33:59 reference drawing coverings over the chest or wearing an outer garment when leaving home, but they do not command women to cover their hair or face in all circumstances. The modern hijab — standardised, politicised, marketed — is a recent invention, largely influenced by Wahhabi interpretations exported from Saudi Arabia in the 20th century. This version of Islam emphasises external signs of piety over inner faith, and it has no inherent connection to the lived, pluralistic Islam of Bengal.
Historically, women in Bangladesh wore the orna, the saree’s pallu, or the flowing salwar‑kameez with ease and dignity. Their clothing was practical, elegant, and modest, without erasing their presence in society. Faith was personal. Modesty was measured in behaviour, in intention, in respect — not in fabric or silhouette. To impose the hijab as a universal obligation is to erase centuries of Bengali tradition and replace it with a rigid, foreign interpretation.
Bangladesh’s Islam has always been diverse. Sufi shrines, folk practices, mystical poetry, and localised customs demonstrate that there is no single way to live or understand faith. There are many Islams, reflecting countless ways of connecting with God. To insist that only one style of dress defines a Muslim woman is to deny this fundamental diversity. It is to flatten a living, breathing tradition into a narrow ideology.
The stakes today are political. Student groups clash over headscarves on campuses. Institutions issue dress codes that subtly enforce veiling. Public discourse frames the hijab as a measure of morality or religious devotion. Behind these shifts lies the spread of a foreign model — one that equates visible conformity with righteousness, obedience with spirituality. And in its wake, choice is stripped away. Modesty becomes a metric, and freedom becomes a crime.
But modesty is never a crime. Faith cannot be coerced. And women’s freedom to choose their dress is not negotiable. When a woman covers her hair or face by her own conviction, that is sacred; when she is pressured or policed, that is oppression. The hijab, when imposed, is not a veil of faith — it is a tool of control. It tells a woman: your body, your hair, your voice is not yours. It belongs to ideology, to society, to a foreign script that does not belong to the delta.
Bangladesh is not a blank canvas for imported dogma. Our women are heirs to a culture of resistance, creativity, and pluralism. From Begum Rokeya to Sufia Kamal, Bengali women have written, taught, led, and rebelled. They understood that modesty is measured in courage, action, and dignity — not in fabric. They knew that Islam can be lived and interpreted in countless ways. That diversity is part of our strength.
And so, we return to choice. A woman may choose to wear a scarf or a veil, or she may not — and both are valid expressions of faith. The measure of modesty lies in intention and integrity, not in a uniform prescribed from outside. In Bangladesh, we must honor our own traditions, our pluralism, and the courage of our women. Let every woman decide for herself how to live her faith, how to move through the world, and how to express her dignity. That freedom, quiet but profound, is the truest form of respect. It is the path to a Bangladesh where faith and freedom coexist, where modesty is a matter of the heart and where the voices of women continue to shape the delta’s story — unbound, uncoerced and unafraid.
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Anusheh Anadil is a singer and social activist.
