Covering My Body at the Pink Mosque in Malaysia: Respect or Control?
During my trip to Malaysia, I visited the famous Putra Mosque, also known as the Pink Mosque, located near Kuala Lumpur. Its architecture is stunning: pink marble, majestic domes, and a serene lakeside setting in Putrajaya. But beyond its aesthetic beauty, what truly marked me was the experience of covering my body inside the mosque. It was a symbolic act that went beyond the physical. Upon entering, all women were required to wear a robe that covered our entire bodies, from head to toe.
It wasn’t a hijab—the veil that covers the hair and neck—but an abaya or jubah, a loose, long robe provided to visitors as part of the entrance protocol. While I was used to covering my legs and shoulders when visiting temples in Asia, this was the first time I had to completely cover my body.
This time, I found myself wondering: why did my body have to disappear in order to be accepted in that space? From my Western, feminist perspective, I don’t intend to judge a religion I don’t practice, but rather to highlight the issue Islam has with the female body.
Are some bodies more acceptable than others? Why? And from my position as a traveler, where do we draw the line between respect and self-effacement? Are we supposed to simply follow imposed rules, or is there room for questioning?
Covering the Body in a Mosque: Respect or Silent Submission?
In Islam, women’s dress codes are linked to the concept of modesty (haya), respect, and devotion. These rules apply not only in religious spaces but also in the daily lives of many Muslim women, deeply rooted in cultural, religious, and social traditions.
My visit to Asia was my first real encounter with this culture, so distant from our Western imagination. While I had met Muslims before, I had never been surrounded by such orthodox practices, nor in a place where all women had to be fully covered.
Not just in Malaysia, but even at the airport in Qatar, I saw women wearing these long robes, which they didn’t remove—not even to eat. Even in the region’s humid heat, only their hands and eyes were visible.
Although seeing women completely covered made me uncomfortable, I understood I was immersed in a different culture. But when those rules were imposed on my body without my consent, tensions arose that were hard to ignore.
It became a choice between staying and respecting their customs or leaving, unable to experience the culture I had traveled to explore. Was donning that robe about respect—or about control? Cultural integration or silent submission? Was I wrong for not wanting to wear it, or were Muslim women wrong for accepting being segregated, veiled, and placed in a separate prayer space?
So I wondered: how much should a foreign body adapt, blend in, or even disappear in order to enter a sacred religious space? What does it really mean to “respect” a culture, and where does that respect end?
Judith Butler and the Regulated Body in Religion
These questions inevitably led me to think of Judith Butler, who in her works Gender Trouble and Bodies That Matter, argues that the body is never outside of discourse. It’s always shaped, produced, and marked by social and cultural norms. In her words, “The body is a regulatory fiction; its materiality is shaped by norms determining what can appear as a body and what cannot.”
Wearing that robe at the mosque, I felt like an external norm was regulating my entire physical being. I wasn’t just asked to cover myself—I was asked to disappear as a visible subject, as a woman. It was as if every part of me was inappropriate and had to be hidden—not just my legs or shoulders, but even my hair.
I couldn’t help but wonder: why would that God care whether I was male or female? Why must all traces of femininity be erased in order to have a spiritual experience? If this is truly about modesty and free will, then why was I forced to cover myself, from head to toe?
In that moment, I realized the idea of the female body in Islam is built on very different foundations than in the West. To be accepted, the female body must be concealed. To be a woman is to be covered and silenced—as if respect is tied to invisibility.
Travel, Adaptation, and the Right to Question
Travel inevitably requires stepping outside of your own framework—and sometimes, entering a space that demands symbolic sacrifices. In the name of respect, we’re sometimes asked to leave parts of our identity behind, to soften them, to quiet them. This is seen in Buddhist or Hindu temples, which require long pants or skirts and covered shoulders—regardless of gender.
But in mosques, it’s specifically the female body that must be completely concealed. Not just knees or shoulders, but every aspect that marks a body as feminine. As if it were something impure or shameful, we are expected to cover even our hair, like it’s something we should be embarrassed about.
As a traveler, I’ve always embraced my status as a foreigner—respecting others and taking a step back to observe. But that day, wearing that enormous robe, the discomfort was too intense for me to remain a passive observer.
Experiencing it firsthand made me question how women raised in this system feel. Do they truly feel comfortable? Is there space for questioning, or is this simply a norm they’ve followed unquestioningly since childhood?
This raises the question: does being an observer mean we have to be impartial? We often assume that not belonging to a culture invalidates our insights. But maybe our position—free from the doctrines instilled from early childhood—allows us to form valid and valuable perspectives.
Shouldn’t travel also be an opportunity to question these norms, instead of just obeying them? As travelers who have seen many cultures, we are in a unique position to build a view that is not impartial, but perhaps more complete and global.
Final Thoughts: What It Means to Cover the Body in a Mosque
Wearing that robe at the Pink Mosque was deeply uncomfortable. Not just because of the physical heat, but because of what it symbolized. It reminded me that some bodies must hide more than others to be deemed worthy of entering sacred spaces. The female body, seen as temptation and corruption, is not welcome unless completely erased.
In this sense, what’s called “respect” for a culture often reproduces unquestionable patriarchal structures. When following a rule that silences millions of bodies is considered “respectful,” we lose the ability to question it.
This isn’t about judging a religion or culture. It’s about reflecting on how we, as travelers, position ourselves. As women who don’t belong to the Muslim world, we must ask: what are we willing to accept, what makes us uncomfortable, and what can—or should—we question?
We must also find balance between passive acceptance of foreign customs and the imposition of our own values. Our perspective may not be “right,” but it’s shaped by lived experience—and that experience is rich, and valid.
We can observe without condemning. And we can question without imposing.
I believe it’s necessary to reflect on the very act of covering up. It’s not just physical—it’s a powerful gesture of silencing that needs to be told, analyzed, and even resisted. Because covering the body in any mosque isn’t just a rule: it’s a way of saying which bodies matter, and which ones must disappear in order to be accepted.
Have you ever had to cover yourself to enter a temple or mosque? I’d love to hear your experience.
If you’re interested in culture and religion in Asia, check out these posts:
- Buddhism in Thailand
- The Duality Between the Traveler and the Fugitive
- Bangkok: Between the Sacred and the Profane
