Denmark is frequently posited as a near-utopia, so much so that when I tell people I used to live in Copenhagen, they often start flinging vague ‘happiness’ statistics at me — “isn’t it the number one happiest country in the world?” “Doesn’t it have the lowest crime rates?” As a country, it’s world-renowned for its liberal, socialist and hygge-filled values, and of course that’s not completely unfounded. It was the first country to recognise same-sex unions, it offers unparalleled healthcare and education benefits, and tax rates high enough to make Theresa May tremble — but its stance on race politics and immigration is anything but utopian.
In 2016, when the Danish parliament approved a law to drastically curb the rights of refugees — allowing for the seizing of assets in a manner that frighteningly mirrored the Nazi’s confiscation of Jewish property — The Guardian printed a Steve Bell caricature depicting Prime Minister Lars Løkke Rasmussen as a Nazi. In it, the Danish Carlsberg font and slogan labelled Denmark’s Venstre party as “probably the stupidest political party in the world”. The country’s controversial ’24-year-rule’, whereby any foreigner married to a Dane can’t gain citizenship until both parties are 24, has also hit international headlines as a so-called abomination of human rights — because the government would rather deport mothers and their DANISH babies to war-torn countries, than grant Danish citizenship to a non-EU woman.
But the latest in a string of Danish law enforcements that punish foreigners (and Danes who choose to marry foreigners) is, for want of a better phrase, the burqa ban. Although there are only around 200 Muslim women in Denmark who choose to dress in burqa or niqab — a miniscule 0.00003% of the Danish population, to put that in perspective — the law came into effect last week and a woman has already been charged. And while the government claim the new law is “not religious” and that any form of “face veiling” or “masking” will be subject to the same penalties, it’s almost impossible not to interpret the ruling in the context of the anti-Islamic, anti-foreigner sentiment that’s being felt across the Western world.
The ban’s implementation has sparked public outcry, from the peaceful, but heavily-populated protests in the streets of Nørrebro, to — most recently — Iranian-born, Denmark-raised designer Reza Etamadi’s subversive show at CPHFW this week, which saw models take to the runway in full burqa and niqab. The MUF10 show saw the streetwear brand’s SS19 collection take a backseat — at least in the eyes of the global media — and foreground the fight for freedom, as people dressed as police officers handed flowers to women in burqas.
It’s a pertinent message, and one that’s surprisingly apt within a fashion context. While on a surface level CPHFW’s innovative, avant-garde approach to fashion might seem world’s apart from religious dress, at the same time, isn’t fashion fundamentally about the clothes we wear and our right to choose them? And when that comes under threat, shouldn’t the fashion cognoscenti, and its doting fans, question that? The MUF10 designer thinks so. “I have a duty to support all women’s freedom of speech and freedom of thought,” he said on Wednesday. “No man should be the judge of what a woman chooses to wear. If we do that in official uniforms, not only do we violate the women behind the clothes, we also violate the freedom of choice that we, in the so-called western world, are known for and are proud to have.”
“No man should be the judge of what a woman chooses to wear. If we do that in official uniforms, not only do we violate the women behind the clothes, we also violate the freedom of choice that we, in the so-called western world, are known for and are proud to have.”
In a fashion industry that’s becoming increasingly geared towards diversity and visibility — with the first woman in hijab appearing on the cover of British Vogue last year, and Nike releasing a collection designed for Muslim athletes shortly after — the disparity between the fashion world and the real one is becoming ever more pronounced. Of course, fashion’s new-found diversity complex is something that’s come from the ground up, driven by the consumer first and foremost, and seeing big brands borrow from cooler up-and-comers, and inasmuch can be seen as disingenuous (think Maria Grazia Chiuri’s poor-effort “I am a feminist” t-shirts.) But it’s also a visible manifestation of general consensus, and it mirrors the change people want to see. In that sense, it seems there’s no better place than the runway for bringing these issues to light. People take note of the things we wear, whether it’s the trivial fascination over Kate Middleton’s latest floral number, or the bold anti-pershing t-shirt designer Katharine Harmett wore when she met Margaret Thatcher. A move like Etamadi’s takes the phrase ‘fashion statement’ to the next level, and proves that, despite its common criticism, fashion can be anything but superficial. Fashion not only emboldens, but it communicates, and the designer’s closing statement sums it up poetically and pertinently: “Free the officials from having to restrict women’s freedom to choose. Instead, offer a flower to the woman who is in most need of the scent of inclusion. Give the officer the sewing needle to connect us, instead of scissors that divide us.”