I’m standing with a group of U.S. travelers outside the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca, Morocco, when our local guide clears his throat. “Dear women in the group,” he begins, “kindly cover your heads with a scarf. I have extra if you need one. This gesture shows respect to the worshippers in the mosque and broader compound area.” A few people startle at his request. “I’m not one of them,” a woman says, the word them hard and pointed. “Why do I have to dress like them?” She eventually drapes a borrowed scarf over her head, but only barely. The next day, another woman appears at the medina in shorts, despite having been asked by guides to cover her knees on our tour of the country. “I’m hot,” she says, justifying her choice.
I watch local Moroccans observe these moments, and I feel frustrated and ashamed that the behavior of a small number of us can define our broader group. Though most of us are not insensitive and entitled, that is likely the impression we give.
As a Seattle-based educator who specializes in diversity and social justice, I’ve led tours in more than a dozen countries over the past 20 years. I’ve seen the ways that many Western travelers could use more support when it comes to navigating race, culture, and gender, especially regarding clothing and self-expression.
Be it the burka or bikini, bandanna or ball gown, fashion and attire signify complex ideas about cultural pride, gender norms, societal attitudes, group belonging, and the construction of respectability. Should anyone be judged solely by the clothes they wear, either at home or when traveling abroad? No, of course not.
Illustration by Leonie Bos
And yet many people, especially women, are often assessed, appreciated, shamed, and sometimes even disciplined based on what they wear. It shouldn’t be this way, but our bodies and how they are draped remain both a personal and a societal issue. Some of us think of conforming as giving something up. When we travel, though, doing so can enable more safety and more meaningful engagement and connections with local people. After all, if I’m dressed so differently from women residents my age, I stand out even more than I already do as a foreigner.
While we move around the world as engaged travelers, there is a delicate balance between showing respect for another culture and not compromising too many of our core beliefs. Certainly, clothing can reflect our hard-won rights for personal and social recognition. When we travel to a destination that is culturally distinct from our own—especially one where clothing norms differ from those we are used to—we can temporarily refashion our appearance to fit better in our new environment while still remaining steadfastly ourselves. The key to better understanding is remaining open to what this balance looks like at various moments.
Before I travel, I spend time learning about the destination I’m visiting. I look through articles online about culture, dress, and history and peruse guidebooks. I also read fiction that takes place in and is written by authors from the location I’m traveling to: Ultimately, novels invite us into the worlds of characters who navigate their culture and family dynamics in ways that help an outsider like me better comprehend what might be taking place below the surface. Through these means, I discern the local norms around gender and clothing, and I pack appropriately. On the ground, I hire a local guide and ask questions about different roles in society, individual self-expression, and group conformity.
I’ve learned that when I blend in now and then, my strong principles and views don’t crumble; they remain rooted and flexible. Even if we dress or act a bit differently abroad than we do at home, who we are belongs to us. When we are guests in another land, mindful travel invites us to shape-shift in playful ways. Perhaps I highlight certain aspects of my personality or downplay others. I may wear a headscarf while visiting Morocco and dress in longer tunics in India, all with ease and equanimity. Even when I look a bit different, at the core I am still me.
