How the Keffiyeh Became the Most Controversial Accessory of Our Time

Photo: Erika Parker

I walked down a makeshift wedding aisle surrounded by massive, ancient Oak trees in New Orleans holding my father’s arm - his shoulders draped with a keffiyeh.

It was November 2020.

Less than two years later, as I cradled my son in frail and exhausted arms from the hospital bed mere hours after giving birth, my brother sang and swayed his keffiyeh above us.

Many other marked moments of joy in our family history bear the black and white stitching which has become synonymous with Palestinian solidarity in the wake of the October 7 attacks by Hamas which claimed 1,200 Israeli lives, and Israel’s brutal, genocidal response which has left over 37,000 Palestinian people dead, most of them women and children.

But as I recently arrived in JFK airport from Lisbon, I timidly clutched the keffiyeh that was loosely wrapped around my neck as I pushed my son in his stroller towards U.S. customs.

For the first time in my life, I felt slightly afraid to wear it, worried that it might draw unwanted attention in a city and state where tensions around Israel-Palestine have run especially high in the aftermath of October 7.

It would perhaps be enticing to say that in a matter of months, the keffiyeh, a symbol of cultural heritage and identity for the roughly 14.3 million Palestinians in Occupied Palestine and throughout the diaspora, suddenly transformed overnight from a signal of pride to politics.

But a more accurate description would be that the storied scarf has been rooted in resistance for almost a century.

Origins of the Keffiyeh

The word ‘keffiyeh’ has its origins in the ‘Kufah’ area of Iraq, a city that sits south of Baghdad on the banks of the Euphrates river, and means “from the city of Kufah”, Layan Al-Yassin writes.

During the time of Mesopotamia in 3100 BCE, a version of the keffiyeh was worn to distinguish honor and rank in society among Sumerian priests.

Before the 1930s however, the keffiyeh was worn mostly by traveling Bedouin tribes and Palestinian farmers year-round as protection against the harsh sun and sand storms.

Over the years it disseminated across the Middle East with several other countries donning a pattern and style distinct to their region. For example, the traditional keffiyeh of Jordan is red and white.

The traditional black and white keffiyeh gained popularity amongst Palestinian rebels and protesters during the British Mandate of Palestine, particularly during the 1936-1939 Arab Revolt, when Palestinians fought unsuccessfully to end British occupation and establish their own independent country, Majdi Habash writes.

Rebels began wrapping the keffiyeh around their face to hide their identity and avoid arrest, which caused the British authorities to ban the keffiyeh. As an act of resistance, many Palestinians began wearing it to make it harder to identify the rebels among the general population.

But the solidifying moment for the keffiyeh came more than three decades later in the 1960s when former Palestinian president and chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organization, Yasser Arafat dubbed his distinct style of wearing the scarf in his public and diplomatic appearances.

From 1967 until the signing of the Oslo Accords in 1993, Israel banned the flying of the Palestinian flag in Gaza and the West Bank, and the keffiyeh served as the de facto flag of Palestine at demonstrations against the Israeli government.

Arafat’s signature style was to wear the keffiyeh precisely positioned on his head, and secured by a black, circular headpiece or  ʿiqāl , with the longer end of the fabric placed over his right shoulder – laid out to resemble a map of pre-1948 Palestine. 

While I vaguely remember images of Yasser Arafat on the television throughout my childhood and adolescence, I didn't come to fully understand the significance of the keffiyeh until I began my career at CNN in my early 20s.

As a journalist with Reuters for over two decades, my former boss and mentor had captured some of the most significant news stories and subjects during the 1980s and 1990s. Among them was an interview he helped produce with Yasser Arafat, whom at the conclusion, took off his keffiyeh and gave it to him.

When I left the network in 2013, in a deeply kind and meaningful gesture, my former boss gave it to me as a farewell gift, which remains safely tucked away in a box in my mother’s home.

Over a decade later, the keffieyh has emerged to become one of the most controversial political fashion statements of our time. 

Today, the Hirbawi Textile Factory in Hebron in the West Bank is the only remaining producer of the original keffiyeh in Palestine.

After the adoption of a free trade policy following the 1993 Oslo Accords, domestic manufacturers could no longer compete with the fast-paced production of keffiyehs on an international scale. With the keffiyeh’s appeal spreading globally, consumer demand heightened with most keffiyehs now being manufactured in China.

Today, wearing the keffiyeh has elicited controversy in many spaces.

Last month during Eurovision, Europe’s largest music competition drawing millions of voters from across Europe to vote for their favorite performers, producers of the entertainment production admonished Swedish performer Eric Saade for wearing a keffiyeh wrapped around his wrist during his performance.  

One day during my almost 9 month daily ritual of scrolling IG to see the latest developments in the war, I paused when I came across an image of a skinny blonde haired, blue eyed boy being arrested by officers with his pants sagging below his waist, the word ‘American’ printed across the waistband, with a keffiyeh tied around his forehead. 

I stared at the image for a few minutes not knowing what to make of it.

It was during the thick of the student encampments that had sprung up on universities across the U.S. calling for a ceasefire and divestment from Israel.

Later in the day, I called my father to express my enthusiasm for the student protestors.

After months of despair at witnessing the unimaginable suffering and loss of Palestinian people in the palms of our hands, the student protestors offered a spark of hope in an otherwise dim and dark time in our lives.

On FaceTime, I asked my father if he ever imagined that he would see college students across campuses in the U.S. wearing keffiyehs and protesting in support for Palestine.

He briefly paused to consider my question and tilted his head slightly back, the way he always does when considering grave or serious matters.

“Never in my lifetime,” he said. “But it was only a matter of time before the world woke up to Palestine.”

Making a Statement

The myriad of brightly patterned pashminas and silk square scarves that I’ve collected throughout my travels over the years have remained mostly untouched in my wardrobe in the past nine months.

My keffiyeh hangs near the door of our Lisbon home next to the essential items we reach for each day.

And while the keffiyeh may be having its moment, I think it’s important to remember that the struggle for liberation of a people is not a fleeting fashion statement. It encompasses decades of suffering and loss at the hands of a brutal occupation.

And so each time I step out of the house and wrap my keffiyeh across my shoulders, I am reminded of this.

What I am saying every time I wear my keffiyeh is that:

Every single Palestinian life matters.

Palestinians deserve to exist in dignity.

Peace is impossible without justice.

Freedom is a cause worth fighting for.

And that perhaps, is the most important statement I will ever make.