What is the cult of female modesty?

Why is the word “whore” such a popular insult, levelled mostly at women? Why are women who reveal more of their bodies than their peers — or who have a reputation for “sleeping around” - typically treated differently to other women? Why have so many societies been obsessed with women’s virginity, to the point that virginity testing is still practiced today? Why are sex workers typically looked down on? The answer is the cult of female modesty: the notion that a woman’s worth, value and respect depend on her bodily modesty. 

The modesty cult shuns and devalues women it sees as “whores”, and deems them a threat not only to themselves, but also to wider society; it holds immodest women responsible for inciting bad behaviour in men, and tells them that they are creating poor role-models for other women. In effect, the modesty cult blames immodest women for man-made problems. It sees women’s bodies as “the problem” - and so wants to cover-up, punish or lock-up women who use their bodies in immodest ways. 

Shouldn’t women be free to cover up if they wish? Are you anti-hijab?

Of course they should. In fact, when I’m not protesting naked, I often dress modestly myself. My objection is not to modesty – in the sense of what people wear or how they choose to live their sex lives – but, instead, to societal attitudes: to those who think that women’s uncovered or promiscuous bodies are ‘the problem’, and who in turn deem immodest women a threat to themselves, a danger to other women and a disruptive force in wider society. 

Challenging the modesty cult doesn’t mean that we should all shed our veils or bikini tops, it means that we should respect modest and immodest women alike, resting a woman’s value and respect on much more important things than bodily modesty. The way we can truly gauge women’s bodily freedom is through the degree of diversity we see around us, and the open-mindedness and tolerance with which women treat other women. A world in which women can be as immodest or modest as they like is a far freer world than one in which we all dress and behave the same, whether modestly or immodestly. 

Sadly, at present, both modest and immodest women get a raw deal. In her book A Return to Modesty, Wendy Shalit documents how difficult she has found life as a modest women, being bullied and ostracised by her female peers, and how young women feel under pressure to dress a certain way to avoid being labelled prudes. Muslim women wearing head coverings are also increasingly singled out, both by society and by the force of law. By 2019, burqa bans were in place in all public areas in France, Belgium, Denmark, Austria and Bulgaria, and in at least some places or regions in Norway, the Netherlands, Spain, Germany, Switzerland and Austria. In Canada in 2021, Fatemeh Anvari, a teacher, was removed from the classroom for wearing a headscarf in front of her class. The same Canadian clothing constraints apply to police officers, lawyers and judges, with women who wear headscarves barred from public positions of authority

Ironically, the abuse and mistreatment faced by modest women is in part a product of modesty culture itself: a concern in the minds of individual women that modest women, relatively speaking, render them ‘immodest’ in comparison; that when someone covers more than you, you are the one left feeling ‘naked’. Once we escape from the modesty cult, we also escape from the idea that modest as well as immodest women are to be feared. We can, at last, be respectful and tolerant of one another.

Have you always been a “naked feminist” at heart?

Certainly not. I admit that I once subscribed to the modesty cult. As a young teenager, while other girls were rolling down their socks and rolling up their skirts, I was doing the reverse: my favourite attire consisted of an almost Victorian-era style of dress, with long socks and a skirt that reached to my ankles. While I was being mocked for my ‘prudish’ state of dress, I could see how others elsewhere in society were laughing at my boob tube wearing peers. They were deemed ‘silly tarts’ and ‘pieces of meat’. When they were harassed or abused, well-mannered society would respond: ‘well, weren’t they asking for it?’ And that is, of course, one of the reasons I covered up. I didn’t want to be written off as ‘trashy’ or ‘common’, or to be seen as ‘fair game’. But, the more I thought about it, and the more I collected my badges of academic achievement, the more I wondered whether I was myself complicit in society’s attempt to divide women up into good girls and whores. I started to notice the way in which my body increasingly felt like a liability, one that risked sullying what I had achieved with my brain. Not only was I left feeling uncomfortable with my sexuality, I felt under pressure to choose between my body and my brain. I began to ask myself: why should I be categorised as a brain and by implication not have a body? And why should other women, from models to strippers, be classified as bodies, with their brain ignored? 

By shedding my own clothes I wanted to question the dangerous societal divisions women face; I wanted to show that behind every body is a brain, and behind every brain is a body and we should celebrate both, and fear neither. I wanted to take charge of both my body and my brain, something that every woman should be free to do. Ever since, I have experienced the full force of the modesty cult. I have been called “trashy”, “stupid”, “an idiot”, and a “whore”. Theo Hobson, writing in The Spectator, declared my own naked protests ‘unfeminist’, while The Telegraph columnist Juliet Samuel argued that nudity ‘strips my arguments of force’, and is ‘meaningless and hackneyed’. And the criticism hasn’t only come from the usual suspects, but also from within feminism itself. As I soon realised, not only do we still have further to travel until women are in full control of their bodies, but it is the cult of female modesty that stands in the way - inside and outside feminism.

Isn’t the “cult of female modesty” only really a problem beyond the West?

In some countries, the modesty cult could not be more clear - virginity is a requirement for marriage and immodest women are subjected to honour killings. In others, the modesty cult has gone under the radar, largely because modesty culture possesses a secret weapon; it is exceptionally evasive. This is because the line between modesty and immodesty is drawn differently in different time periods and in different societies. What one person judges to be modest, another might judge to be immodest, depending on where they live, and in which century.

In parts of the Middle East, a woman without a headscarf is considered ‘naked’, whereas a European woman wearing a bikini would not, in general, be described as such. To some extent, a scantily clad woman can still be considered ‘respectable’ in Western culture, so long as she behaves in a ‘controlled’ way in terms of her sexuality. Moreover, within the naturist community, nakedness itself is not perceived as immodest but as humbling, innocent and without vanity, whereas the ‘sexualisation’ of the body is considered more of a taboo. Bodily coverage (and the acceptance or otherwise of nudity) is, therefore, neither necessary nor sufficient as a metric of modesty culture; attitudes towards women’s sexuality also need to be considered. Indeed, history tells us that societies often seek to control not only how women dress, but, more specifically, their sexual behaviour, creating not only an obsession with virginity, but also, at the opposite end of the spectrum, a demonisation of those who might profit from their bodies, such as glamour models and sex workers.

The fact that bodily modesty is multi-faceted, and that there are no universal rules, might make the modesty cult elusive, but that does not mean that we should be fooled into thinking that we have escaped its torment. Any society in which the word ‘whore’ acts as an insult to women should be considered to a greater or lesser extent to be within its grip. This is because, at its heart, the modesty cult divides women up into ‘good girls’ and ‘whores’ and anyone who is on the wrong side of this line is deemed lacking in respect and worth. Whorephobia and slut-shaming are the inequitable, and damaging, consequence.

Doesn’t the modesty cult naturally wane with time? 

Far from revealing an upward march towards bodily and sexual liberty, Naked Feminism shows how (and why) the pendulum of modesty has swung back and forth across the centuries. Women’s lives in Ancient Babylon and Ancient Egypt were very different to those today - indeed, Babylon became infamous for its immodesty. Many early societies placed few constraints on women’s sexuality, but, as agriculture developed, as economies grew, as wealth inequality emerged, as population blossomed, and as human beings took up arms, women’s virginity became a valuable asset, both in terms of the marriage market and as a means of controlling who could or could not reproduce, and with whom. Immodest women became a threat to fatherhood, a threat to inheritance, a threat to population control and a threat to group identity. The state and religious authorities conspired to further the level of repression, while competition between women led to modesty practices snowballing. 

By around two thousand BCE, an obsession with women’s bodily modesty had descended across the Middle East, North Africa and the eastern Mediterranean. The Ancient Greeks were some of the worst offenders. But, by Roman times, women were not only unveiling their carefully manicured hair, they were also visible in public. The modesty-loving strands of Christianity, Islam and neo-Confucianism soon stamped on this public display. And then, just as modesty culture was spreading from China across East Asia in the form of neo-Confucianism, Europeans were embracing the bawdiness of Chaucer and Shakespeare. The Puritans soon put an end to the parties, the illegitimacy, and the ‘whoredom’: immodest women were burned, imprisoned in Magdalen homes, or whipped by order of the state. And, thanks to the colonial adventures of the Spanish and Portuguese, not to mention the Puritans themselves, this modesty cult was shipped far and wide. 

By the nineteenth century, industrialisation brought the extremes of both wealth and poverty, a rapidly expanding population, and a growth in heavy industry favouring male labour, leaving women competing with one another for the wealthiest husbands on the basis of their ‘purity’. At this point, even feminists were embracing the purity agenda, for men as well as for women, culminating in Christabel Pankhurst’s demand for ‘votes for women, chastity for men’. Soon the Victorian moralists were ‘saving souls’ abroad as well as at home, teaching people to feel shame and embarrassment about their bodies in parts of the world that had, until then, no concept of ‘nakedness’. In an effort to inflate the virtue of white European women, whole continents-worth of women were labelled ‘whores’, in turn contributing to widespread rape and abuse. And, where colonialists faced women who dressed particularly modestly, then so as not to bump European women down the modesty rankings, they were automatically labelled backward and oppressed.

The fact that periods of liberalism have, in the past, been followed by modesty clampdowns means that we cannot take women’s freedoms for granted. Today, the same pressures that have in the past precipitated a return to modesty are once again building: inequality, population growth and religious fervour. Unless it is nipped in the bud, modesty culture is on course to expand. Today’s resurgence in the modesty cult is on cue; having witnessed the sexual liberalisation of the twentieth century, the puritans are overdue a comeback. While women in Iran are fighting to be free of the compulsory hijab, women in Afghanistan are being locked out of education and the workplace, and aren’t even able to seek medical help because it involves interacting with male doctors and surgeons. In America, ‘purity culture’ is taking hold in Evangelical circles, and, in Israel, gender segregation is becoming increasingly popular amongst the religious-right, whose political power is on the rise. 

How does modesty relate to feminism?

For millennia, the state and society have policed and regulated what women can do with both their bodies and their brains. Over the last century, women have become increasingly free to make the most of their brains and, while we are a long way from full equality, they can now be found among the educated elite, working as politicians, academics and doctors. But, sadly, women’s bodies remain constrained, judged and controlled.

Women can themselves be complicit in the cult of female modesty – judging and looking down on those who are either insufficiently covered or deemed sexually ‘promiscuous’. In fact, the modern-day modesty resurgence isn’t only associated with clerics, conservatives and nationalists; it is also at risk of polluting feminism itself, particularly as we react to the issues raised by the ubiquitous presence of sex and women’s bodies in today’s ‘striptease culture’. In the book, I consider numerous strands of feminist thought – including the feminism of the suffragettes, socialist feminism, Islamic feminism and radical feminism – to uncover the degree to which they do or do not embrace aspects of the modesty cult. Sadly, the cult of female modesty has a long history within feminism, including within the suffragette movement, who embraced the white stripe of purity within their tricolour branding. Elizabeth Wolstenholme Elmy (1833-1918) - like me, a proud Manchester girl - was the first paid employee of the suffragettes, but experienced the full force of their puritanism when, upon becoming pregnant outside of marriage, she was asked to stand down. According to Millicent Garrett Fawcett, she had done ‘a great injury to the cause of women’. For these early feminists, maintaining a reputation for ‘respectability’ - where respectability was, for women, equated with bodily modesty - was all-important.

The puritanical tradition continues to thrive in modern day feminism, which too often comes across as body-phobic, as femme-phobic and as whorephobic. At the moment, by casting immodest women as problematic - whether they are scantily-clad or on Only Fans - feminists are encouraging the growth of the modesty cult. My message in response is simple: beware puritanical feminism! Rather than embracing modesty as a tool for liberation, we need to rid feminism of its internalised slut-shaming, and to welcome all women - modest or not - within the feminist movement. For women to take control of their bodies as well as their brains, feminism will need to break the cult of female modesty.

Isn’t there a middle ground? And hasn’t the West got it about right - not too much, not too little?

It is certainly common for people to ‘pick and choose’, approving or being tolerant of some behaviours which could be deemed ‘immodest’ but not others: for example, life models are commonly seen as more acceptable than glamour models; women who have premarital sex in a long-term relationship are typically seen as more ‘respectable’ than those who also engage in casual sex; strippers are often judged less disapprovingly than women who have sex for money; and, women who have lots of casual sex are judged much more favourably than those who choose to sell sex. I frequently, however, find myself questioning the divisions that are commonly constructed in our minds between different aspects of immodesty. For example, if I was ever to be paid for delivering a naked performance on the topic of feminism, would that have any overlap with stripping? If a life model sells naked images of herself to artists for artistic purposes, does what she is doing have any degree of overlap with glamour modelling (after all, some of her images may well be bought for pornographic use)? If you model underwear for a high street chain, is there any overlap with posing for a ‘Lads’ Mag’? While there are certainly differences between each of these activities – which many are of course keen to point out – there is also some degree of commonality, and acknowledging this is, I believe, vital to breaking down the divisions between women. Rather than erecting a wall between women, with ‘good girls’ on one side and ‘whores’ on the other, we can – and should – be setting a wrecking ball loose on the very idea of division. Surely, we can build respect for women on the basis of something other than bodily modesty? 

Doesn’t Naked Feminism simply give men more of what they want?

Some certainly seem to think so. Indeed, according to a 2020 YouGov poll, women are more likely than men to object to other women being topless on the beach. Less than half of British women think that topless sunbathing is ‘acceptable for both men and women’ compared with 70 per cent of men. Similarly, a half of British women think that non-sexualised naked protest is completely unacceptable compared with only 38 per cent of men. Many women take the attitude that too much female flesh on show serves the ‘male gaze’. Gabby Aossey argues that while ‘[w]omen who wear hijab have freed themselves from a man’s and a society’s judgemental gaze; the Free the Nipplers have not . . . [t]hey have fallen deep into the man’s world, believing that this trend will garner respect’. For those who agree with Aossey, what other people, predominantly heterosexual men, might think or feel in response to your body is more important than you being free to use your body as you choose. But, in my view, we must ask ourselves: why shouldn’t women be free to uncover or monetise their bodies as well as their brains? Why should what some men might think or feel in response dictate what we can or cannot do with our bodies?

Following a series of my own naked protests, a member of a Sheffield Radical Feminist group tweeted: ‘does it not even make you pause for thought when you realise that men over-whelmingly support your feminism’. Many women offer a comment along these same lines: aren’t you just giving men precisely what they want? But to resist naked protesting, or another form of nudity, so as to avoid the male gaze is, to my mind, allowing the male gaze to dictate what I do or do not do with my own body. I am perfectly capable of respecting myself and confident enough to pursue my goals, irrespective of what men might think or feel in response to my naked body. I have made a concerted choice not to let anyone who might ‘ogle’ or make crude comments stand in my way. For women to live their lives in a way that is limited by the male gaze as a means of escaping the male gaze would seem to be at best a pyrrhic victory. Surely it can be feminist to ignore, rather than be constrained by, the male gaze.

In my view, the solution to women being viewed as ‘sex objects’ is to be found in changing the way we as a society judge women, rather than changing (and restricting) women’s behaviour. As Naked Feminism shows, women are not treated more respectfully in societies in which they are expected to cover up - and, similarly, women in buttoned-up Victorian Britain did not have better lives than women today. 

Aren’t we really a society of raunch - rather than one in which the modesty cult reigns supreme?

If the cult of female modesty were truly a thing of the past, slut-shaming and whorephobia would by now be extinct. While nowadays, and in some circles, being ‘hot’ can certainly command respect, being ‘slutty’ does not; and, of course, only women can be sluts. Slut-shaming remains as popular as ever, and thanks to revenge porn and deep fake porn, women are regularly humiliated and demeaned purely on the basis of their perceived bodily (im)modesty. While ‘raunch culture has its problems, we must not throw the baby out with the bath water: a return to modesty cannot provide the silver bullet that its adherents are looking for. The modest cult cannot be our saviour!

In addition to Naked Feminism, what other books would you recommend? 

Some of my personal favourites include Kate Lister’s Harlots, Whores and Hackabouts, along with A Curious History of Sex, Ruth Mazo Karras’s Common Women, Emma Rees’s The Vagina: A Literary and Cultural History, Annebella Pollen’s Nudism in a Cold Climate, Hanne Blank’s Virgin: The Untouched History, Mona Eltahawy’s Headscarves and Hymens: Why the Middle East Needs a Sexual Revolution and Philip Carr-Gomm’s A Brief History of Nakedness.