Fashion as a Political Statement: How Clothing Became a Form of Protest
Fashion has always been a language, a dialect of fabric and form that speaks long before words do. Before a person utters a single syllable, their clothing has already made a statement, whispering or shouting their identity, their mood, their allegiance. To dress is to declare; to align oneself with a tribe, a movement, an idea. Clothes are rarely neutral. Even in their supposed simplicity, they reflect choices shaped by culture, history, and politics. The act of getting dressed, then, is never just about aesthetics; it is about positioning oneself within the broader social landscape.
But beyond being a personal statement, fashion has long been one of the most potent tools of resistance — a silent yet thunderous act of defiance. The right garment, worn at the right moment, can ignite a revolution. A hemline can be an act of rebellion; a colour can carry the weight of a movement. The history of fashion is, in many ways, the history of protest woven into fabric, stitched into silhouettes, embroidered with meaning.
In a world where silence is complicity, fashion offers an alternative: a way to speak without words, to resist without raising a fist, to wear one’s beliefs on one’s sleeve, quite literally. Whether it’s the punk tearing apart and safety-pinning their jeans, the feminist in a power suit reclaiming authority, or the activist whose choice of clothing is a deliberate refusal to comply, fashion remains a political act. And as history has shown time and time again, the right outfit at the right moment can do more than make a statement — it can make a movement.
Dior’s S/S 2017 by Maria Grazia Chiuri graphic t-shirts, which referenced a 2014 essay by Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
The Personal as Political: Dressing for Dissent
We often think of political statements as grand gestures, for example marches, speeches, or manifestos — but sometimes, rebellion is as simple as getting dressed. A black beret in 1960s America wasn’t just a hat; it was a declaration of solidarity with the Black Panther Party. A pink pussyhat in 2017 was not just a knitted accessory; it was a collective roar against misogyny. The suffragettes didn’t just fight for the vote; they did it draped in pristine white, using their clothing as a visual shorthand for their cause.
This is the power of fashion as protest: it is immediate, unspoken, and utterly inescapable. It doesn’t ask to be heard; it demands to be seen. A slogan sprawled across a T-shirt, a sea of coordinated colours, an ensemble so subversive it cannot be ignored — these are all acts of dissent woven into fabric. But protest through fashion isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it is quiet yet no less radical, stitched into the everyday choices of those who refuse to conform. It is the woman who walks into a boardroom in a sharply tailored suit, embodying the authority she was told she could never have. It is the young man who paints his nails, knowing full well the weight of that decision in certain circles. It is the refusal to shrink, the rejection of imposed norms, the willingness to wear one's beliefs on one's sleeve.
To underestimate fashion is to misunderstand power. Clothing has been banned, criminalised, and regulated precisely because of its ability to disrupt. Monarchs have issued sumptuary laws dictating what the lower classes could wear, ensuring that power was quite literally woven into silk and velvet, denying it to those dressed in wool. Colonisers sought to erase indigenous dress, imposing Western attire as a means of control. Dictatorships have forced uniformity, outlawing individual expression under the guise of national unity. Even now, what people wear is policed, sometimes legally, sometimes socially, but always with the same implicit understanding: fashion is never just fabric. It is a battleground, a stage, a megaphone.
At its most effective, fashion in protest is about visibility. It forces the world to look, to acknowledge, to react. When the women of the #MeToo movement arrived at the Golden Globes in an unspoken but unanimous wave of black gowns, it was more than just a colour choice — it was a funeral for silence, a sartorial rebellion against an industry that had protected predators for too long. It was a reminder that fashion, when wielded deliberately, can carry the weight of a movement.
And then there is the case of Mahsa Amini, the young Iranian woman whose death in 2022 ignited a firestorm of protests against Iran’s mandatory hijab laws. The simple act of removing one’s headscarf, something seemingly mundane to those outside the context, became an act of radical defiance, an unmasking of oppression. When Iranian women stood in public spaces, their hair uncovered, they were turning their own bodies into battlegrounds for autonomy. The world watched as scarves were burned, as women cut their hair in mourning and defiance, as the very garment that had been used to control them became the symbol of their resistance. Fashion, in these moments, was not just a tool of expression — it was a weapon.
But protest fashion is not only reactive; it is also pre-emptive, a way of claiming space before it has been offered. It is in the calculated flamboyance of drag culture, a deliberate act of defying gender norms long before mainstream acceptance caught up. It is in the quiet yet revolutionary decision of women to wear trousers in the early 20th century, an act that now seems unremarkable precisely because of the battles fought to normalise it. It is in every outsider who has ever dressed in a way that said, “I am here, and I refuse to disappear”.
Fashion may seem frivolous to those who don’t understand it. But those in power have always understood its significance, that’s why they’ve tried to control it. And that’s why, time and time again, those who seek change have used it to fight back. Because clothing is not just what we wear. It is what we choose to say when words are not enough.
The Fabric of Rebellion: Subversion Through Style
But protest fashion isn’t always as direct as a slogan on a T-shirt. Sometimes, it operates in the shadows, slipping past censors and expectations, its defiance stitched into the very seams. Sometimes, it’s about playing with the codes of power, twisting them until they no longer serve those who wrote them. It’s the way the Mods of 1960s Britain rejected the rigid class structures by dressing like upper-class dandies while riding scooters through working-class streets, turning elitist fashion into a uniform of youth rebellion. It’s how Vivienne Westwood and the punk movement turned torn fishnets, leather, and safety pins into a middle finger to the establishment, a visual manifesto that screamed chaos and anarchy in a world obsessed with order. It’s the Zoot Suit Riots of the 1940s, where Mexican-American youths in oversized, flamboyant suits became symbols of cultural pride and defiance in the face of discrimination, their exaggerated silhouettes an assertion of identity in a country that sought to erase them.
1940-42 zoot suit © Museum Associates / LACMA
Subversion through fashion is a game as old as power itself. The French Revolution saw the rise of the sans-culottes — those who rejected the aristocratic knee-breeches (culottes) in favour of long trousers, marking themselves as part of the working class. The act of wearing trousers may seem banal now, but at the time, it was a radical rejection of monarchy, an insistence that fashion should not be the sole property of the ruling class. The sans-culottes used their clothing as a weapon, a fabric declaration of allegiance to a new order.
In Soviet Russia, jeans were seen as a symbol of Western decadence, banned for their capitalist associations. Yet, this only heightened their desirability. Smuggling a pair of Levi’s past the Iron Curtain wasn’t just an act of fashion; it was an act of rebellion, a rejection of state-imposed conformity. To wear jeans was to make a statement: I see your restrictions, and I will defy them. It’s why blue denim, the quintessential fabric of the American worker, became paradoxically glamorous in places where it was forbidden. The harder the authorities tried to repress it, the stronger its allure became.
Even today, clothing remains a quiet but potent force of defiance. The phenomenon of quiet luxury — the supposed rejection of logos and overt displays of wealth, worn by the ultra-rich as a way to exist outside the spectacle of late-stage capitalism. On the surface, it appears to be the opposite of protest; in reality, it is rebellion in its most insidious form. The wealthy no longer need to shout their wealth; they whisper it instead, with cashmere coats, precise tailoring, and fabrics so exquisite they are identifiable only to those within the same elite circles. The absence of a statement becomes a statement in itself.
But this isn’t just about subtle flexing — it’s also about control. Historically, wealth was something that had to be seen to be believed, hence the extravagant furs, gilded embroidery, and blinding jewellery of monarchs and aristocrats. The modern elite, however, have rewritten the rules. They now signal power not through ostentation but through exclusivity. A quiet luxury cashmere coat doesn’t scream “I am rich” the way a logo-covered handbag might. Instead, it murmurs, “I am so rich that I don’t need you to know.” It is a rebellion against the very culture it thrives in, a refusal to engage in the gaudy spectacle of consumerism while still reaping its rewards.
Of course, this subtle defiance is only afforded to those with the privilege to engage in it. The luxury of rebellion, whether loud or quiet, has always been distributed unequally. A wealthy banker in a perfectly cut yet unbranded coat is seen as refined, discerning. A working-class youth in an oversized hoodie might be perceived as suspicious. The same garments, the same codes, interpreted differently depending on who is wearing them.
And this, perhaps, is where the greatest act of fashion rebellion lies: in reclaiming the narrative, in refusing to be defined by the assumptions of others. Whether through excess or restraint, extravagance or minimalism, the very act of choosing what to wear becomes a statement. After all, fashion is never just about fabric. It is about perception, power, and the endless tug-of-war between conformity and resistance.
The Commodification of Protest: Who Gains, Who Loses?
One of fashion’s greatest strengths as a tool for dissent is also its greatest weakness: its ability to be co-opted. What begins as an act of subversion can quickly be absorbed into the mainstream, stripped of its radical roots and repackaged as aesthetic. The punk movement, which began as a rejection of consumerist culture, now exists as a heavily commodified trend. The political edge of its ripped shirts and anarchist symbols has been dulled by mass production, sold back to the same system it once sought to undermine. The same fate has befallen countless other movements: countercultures that once thrived on their opposition to the status quo eventually find their symbols mass-produced, their messages diluted, their original meaning buried beneath commercial appeal.
But who benefits when radical fashion is commercialised? Certainly not the communities who pioneered these movements. The people who originally wore protest fashion out of necessity or defiance are often erased from the narrative once their aesthetic becomes marketable. The Black and Latinx youth who created streetwear, the queer pioneers of gender-fluid dressing, the indigenous communities whose patterns and textiles have been “reinterpreted" by luxury brands — these groups rarely see the profits that arise from their cultural and political innovations. Meanwhile, the fashion industry, built on an insatiable hunger for the new, profits immensely.
From Subversion to Product: The Lifecycle of Radical Fashion
There is a predictable pattern to the way fashion absorbs resistance. It begins at the fringes, in the hands of those who wear it not to be stylish but to survive. Whether it’s working-class youths in London turning safety pins and leather jackets into symbols of punk rebellion or the drag queens of New York’s ballroom scene crafting a visual language of queerness in a world that sought to erase them, these movements are born out of necessity. They are makeshift, raw, and deeply personal.
Then comes the moment of recognition. The mainstream takes notice, not always out of admiration, but often out of fascination. Designers who claim to be “inspired" by these subcultures begin incorporating their aesthetics into collections. Editors declare it “the next big thing." What was once niche or radical suddenly becomes desirable. The same brands that once rejected these styles now seek to capitalise on them.
Vivienne Westwood, London
Inevitably, commodification follows. What was once a subversive statement becomes a product. The edges are softened, the message diluted to make it palatable for mass consumption. Punk fashion, once a symbol of anti-establishment rage, now exists as a curated selection of pre-ripped jeans and studded jackets at luxury boutiques. The queer aesthetics that once got people beaten in the streets are now sold as seasonal trends, often modelled by the same cisgender, heterosexual figures that queer pioneers fought against. The feminist slogan T-shirts, originally born out of grassroots activism, are now churned out by fast fashion brands that pay their garment workers starvation wages.
By the time a movement has been fully absorbed into commercial fashion, it has lost much of its radical potency. The symbols remain, but their meaning has been emptied out. The cycle is complete: a movement that once challenged the system has now become another cog within it.
The Cost of Visibility: When Protest Becomes Palatable
The commodification of protest fashion does not only dilute its radical potential — it also reshapes how these movements are perceived. Once a protest aesthetic enters the mainstream, it risks becoming performative rather than political. Wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt does not mean one supports anti-capitalist revolution; in many cases, it simply means the shirt was aesthetically pleasing. The Palestinian keffiyeh, once a deeply political garment symbolising resistance, is now often worn as a bohemian fashion accessory with no regard for its historical significance. Even the safety pin, once revived as a symbol of solidarity in the wake of Brexit and Trump's election, quickly became an empty gesture when worn without real activism to back it up.
This is the cost of visibility: once a protest aesthetic becomes fashionable, it becomes safe. Fashion, at its core, is a business, and businesses do not thrive on making people uncomfortable. For a movement to be profitable, it must be stripped of its more radical implications. The edge that once made it powerful is rounded off, its meaning is sanitised for commercial appeal.
Can Commercialisation Ever Be Beneficial?
However, is commodification always a death sentence for a movement? Or can it sometimes serve a purpose? The idea that commercialisation inevitably kills the political impact of fashion is not always accurate. Sometimes, the mainstreaming of an aesthetic allows a movement’s message to reach a wider audience. A feminist T-shirt may not dismantle the patriarchy, but if it sparks conversations, if it funds organisations doing real activist work, then perhaps it has some value. The Black Panther Party’s use of coordinated, militaristic clothing helped create a powerful visual identity that was impossible to ignore. When brands like Pyer Moss use their platform to highlight Black history and activism, they are engaging in a form of commercialised resistance — but does that necessarily diminish the impact?
Similarly, the rise of gender-fluid fashion in luxury markets can be seen as both a dilution and an expansion of queer aesthetics. On one hand, it risks erasing the history of LGBTQ+ pioneers who wore these styles when it was dangerous to do so. On the other hand, the visibility of androgynous fashion in high-end spaces challenges the rigidity of gender norms in mainstream culture. The question, then, is whether commercialisation preserves the essence of a movement or simply renders it hollow.
One of the few ways that commercialisation can benefit a movement is if it actively gives back to the communities that created it. When brands collaborate with the people who pioneered a style, rather than merely appropriating their work, there is an opportunity for fashion to be a force for good. The problem is that this is the exception rather than the rule.
The Politics of the Runway: When Fashion Houses Take a Stand
Fashion is often dismissed as frivolous, an industry concerned with beauty over substance. But anyone who has ever truly paid attention to a runway show knows better. The catwalk has long been a battleground, a space where designers wage ideological wars with fabric and form, using clothing as a manifesto. Some messages are subtle: an inversion of expected silhouettes, a reinterpretation of historical dress, while others are blunt, as direct as a placard at a protest. Either way, the political power of the runway is undeniable.
Some of the most provocative collections in history have been more than just aesthetic experiments; they have been statements. Alexander McQueen’s “Highland Rape" (1995) was a jarring, visceral commentary on England’s historical violation of Scotland, with models staggering down the runway in torn lace and distressed tartans, their hair wild, their eyes hollow. The show was shocking but that was the point. It was a reminder that fashion, when wielded with intent, can unsettle, provoke, demand attention. It can refuse to be ignored.
Rei Kawakubo’s “Lumps and Bumps" collection for Comme des Garçons (1997) was another radical statement, though of a different kind. With its exaggerated, asymmetrical padding distorting the female form, it rejected the rigid, classical ideals of beauty imposed on women’s bodies. The models looked almost alien, as though their forms had rebelled against the tyranny of symmetry and convention. It was fashion as resistance — not just against aesthetics, but against the very idea that a woman’s body should conform to any set expectation.
In more recent years, the political nature of the runway has become more explicit. Maria Grazia Chiuri’s Dior has leaned heavily into feminism as a recurring theme, most famously with the “We Should All Be Feminists" T-shirts from her debut collection in 2016. The slogan, borrowed from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s essay of the same name, transformed a radical social movement into a luxury commodity. It was divisive. Was it a genuine attempt to elevate feminist discourse, or was it simply performative — a way to capitalise on the mainstream appeal of feminism without engaging in real activism? The answer likely depends on whether one sees fashion as capable of meaningful political action, or merely as a mirror reflecting the politics of the moment. Regardless, the fact that feminism was being discussed at all within the realm of high fashion marked a cultural shift.
But perhaps no contemporary designer has blurred the line between fashion and politics as much as Demna at Balenciaga. His shows are not just showcases of clothing; they are dystopian spectacles that force the audience to confront the realities of modern existence. His Winter 2022 show, staged in a giant snow globe, became a symbol of displacement and crisis, coinciding with the Russian invasion of Ukraine. The models trudged through artificial snow, wrapped in layers, clutching their coats as though fleeing an unseen force. It was impossible to separate the collection from the world outside the runway. The effect was haunting: fashion not as escapism, but as confrontation.
Even the Met Gala, fashion’s most opulent event, has become a site of political messaging. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s “Tax the Rich" dress in 2021, designed by Aurora James, was a prime example of the contradictions embedded in fashion’s relationship with politics. Worn to an event attended by some of the wealthiest and most powerful people in the world, the dress ignited debates about whether it was a bold act of defiance or an empty gesture. Did it challenge the elite, or was it simply playing into the spectacle? And does it matter? Fashion, after all, thrives on paradox. It can be both protest and privilege, rebellion and reinforcement of the very systems it critiques.
This is the central tension of political fashion on the runway: where does genuine resistance end and commercialisation begin? A designer may create a collection that critiques capitalism, war, or gender norms, but those pieces will ultimately be sold at luxury price points, accessible only to the wealthy. A slogan T-shirt may carry a revolutionary message, but if it’s produced under exploitative labour conditions, is it still revolutionary? The industry constantly walks a fine line between subversion and complicity.
Yet, despite these contradictions, fashion as a political statement remains potent. Not because it necessarily changes policy, but because it changes perception. It forces a conversation. A single collection, a single garment, can disrupt expectations, make people uncomfortable, even challenge how they see the world. And in that sense, the runway remains one of the most powerful stages for political discourse — not through speeches or laws, but through the language of cloth, movement, and spectacle.
Fashion’s Inescapable Capitalism: Can Brands Be True Allies?
This brings us to a larger question: can fashion brands ever be true allies of activism, or will capitalism always taint their efforts? The answer is complicated. Fashion, as an industry, is deeply tied to capitalism, and capitalism is, by nature, exploitative. Even brands that claim to be progressive often fall short of their own messaging. Dior can send a “We Should All Be Feminists" T-shirt down the runway, but if the brand does not actively support garment workers, does the statement mean anything? Balenciaga can create a collection inspired by refugees, but when it charges thousands of dollars for the pieces, who is truly being helped?
There are brands that attempt to align themselves with political movements in a more meaningful way. Patagonia, for instance, has made real commitments to environmental activism, putting its money where its mouth is. Pyer Moss uses its runway shows as a platform to tell stories about Black history that have been erased from mainstream narratives. Even Schiaparelli, with its surrealist political statements, engages with fashion as a tool of disruption.
But at the end of the day, even the most well-intentioned brands exist within a capitalist framework. And capitalism is built on consumption. A brand that truly advocated for radical change would have to challenge the very system it profits from. And how many are willing to do that?
Resistance Will Always Find New Threads
Yet, despite these limitations, the subversive potential of fashion cannot be dismissed. Clothing remains one of the most accessible forms of protest, particularly for those who may not have the ability to march in the streets or speak out publicly. A piece of clothing can serve as a quiet act of defiance, a way of signalling allegiance, solidarity, or resistance in environments where words might be dangerous. It is why dress codes continue to be so heavily policed, why certain garments are still banned, and why authorities fear what people wear just as much as what they say.
The co-optation of radical fashion is an inevitability, but it is not the end. Just as one movement is absorbed, another emerges. Punk was commercialised, but new underground subcultures rise in its place. Queer fashion is mainstreamed, but the next generation finds new ways to push boundaries. The machine of capitalism may be relentless, but so is human creativity.
Fashion will always be a battleground between authenticity and appropriation, between protest and profit. But as long as power exists, people will find ways to challenge it. And as long as there are people willing to resist, fashion will never stop being a weapon of rebellion—thread by thread, stitch by stitch, revolution by revolution.
Perhaps the true power of fashion as a political statement lies not in its permanence, but in its adaptability. Fashion may not be able to sustain protest indefinitely — it may be co-opted, diluted, rebranded, but it is endlessly capable of reinventing itself. Each generation finds new ways to use clothing as resistance, to reclaim symbols that have been stripped of meaning, to create new ones that force the world to look again. If fashion’s relationship with protest is a game of cat and mouse, then resistance is always one step ahead, constantly evolving, refusing to be pinned down.
In the end, fashion is not just about what we wear — it is about how we wear it, and what we make it mean. It is a language that can be spoken in whispers or shouts, in quiet defiance or overt rebellion. And as long as power exists, fashion will always find ways to challenge it, thread by thread.
The Future of Fashion as Protest
As the world grows increasingly unstable, fashion’s role in political discourse will only become more pronounced. We are entering an era where what you wear is no longer just a reflection of personal taste but a declaration of values. Sustainability, for example, has become one of the biggest battlegrounds in fashion — opting out of fast fashion, thrifting, or supporting ethical brands is now as much an act of protest as it is a lifestyle choice.
At the same time, there is a danger in fashion’s commodification of activism. The rise of “woke-washing” sees brands capitalising on political movements without real action behind them. A rainbow logo during Pride Month means nothing if a company is simultaneously donating to anti-LGBTQ+ politicians. A feminist T-shirt made in a sweatshop contradicts its own message. The line between genuine protest and profitable branding is increasingly blurred.
But despite this, fashion will remain one of the most visceral, immediate ways for people to express their beliefs. Whether it’s a teenager customising their school uniform in rebellion, a designer sending a political statement down the runway, or an entire movement adopting a colour, a style, a silhouette — clothing will always be more than just clothing. It will be a language, a weapon, a shield, a banner to march under.
Because in the end, fashion has never been just about what we wear. It’s about who we are, and more importantly, who we refuse to be.
S xoxo
Written in Paris, France
23rd January 2025