I Wore a Thobe in Saudi Arabia. Was It the Right Choice?

During my visit to Riyadh last January, I mentioned to my Saudi friend Khalid how much I admired thobes, the stylish traditional white attire worn by men throughout the country. As we enjoyed sweet mint tea from ornate glasses, I expressed my envy over the lack of similar traditional garments for men in the U.S. and Europe, where I currently live. Without missing a beat, he replied, “Let’s go find you one!”

Honestly, it never occurred to me that I could purchase a thobe. I had a deep admiration for them but knew little about the significance of wearing one. “Is it appropriate for a foreigner to don one?” I asked, concerned that it might be cultural appropriation. “Absolutely, it’s respectful!” he said, grinning. “Thobes aren’t religious; they’re simply what we wear to keep cool in the desert heat.”

Moments later, Khalid and I were knee-deep in piles of fabric at a thobe shop in Riyadh’s Al Dirah district. Khalid conversed with the shopkeeper in Arabic, and after a few attempts, I found one that fit me just right. I even picked up a ghutrah, the red and white headscarf to help beat the heat. “You look dashing,” Khalid remarked. I playfully agreed. Even the usually serious shopkeeper couldn't help but smile widely at the sight of me.

The thobe kept me comfortable and allowed me to avoid wearing shorts, which aren't advisable in many Muslim-majority nations, including Saudi Arabia. I was so delighted with it that I decided to wear it for the rest of the day while exploring the city’s UNESCO-listed At-Turaif district and indulging in an om ali dessert (a type of Middle Eastern bread pudding) at the renowned Em Sherif cafe. Naturally, I shared a photo of myself in it on Instagram and continued my adventures.

That afternoon, tensions began to rise when I encountered an American colleague who instantly criticized my outfit. It was also his first trip to Saudi Arabia, so his indignation surprised me. “You’re not really wearing that?” he exclaimed, rolling his eyes. Unfortunately, this was just a preview of what awaited me on social media. When I checked my post, I found comments like disrespectful, cultural appropriation, ugly tourist, entitled white American, tone deaf, insensitive. Some of my fellow queer American friends—typically advocates for tolerance and inclusivity—posted even snarkier and more vitriolic remarks like, “Good luck not getting beheaded.” “Muslims hate gays.” And: “You’re wearing the costume of the people who oppress us.”

I pondered where the line was drawn between LGBTQ advocacy and Islamophobia. How could I feel so welcomed and encouraged to wear a thobe in Saudi Arabia, yet face such vilification online and back in the U.S.? More importantly, who was in the right?

Many travelers have found themselves in similar predicaments, where the cultural norms of a destination clash with perceptions back home. Perhaps a local friend suggests we show our newfound appreciation for a place by donning lederhosen or a Korean hanbok. It can all seem harmless until a photo is taken, and interpretations from Mytour draw you out of the moment and deeper into the dilemma. The rise of social media has intensified these tensions.

Women attending an Indian wedding, whether Indian or not, may have worn a sari. Similarly, men at a bar mitzvah, regardless of their faith, are often asked to wear a yarmulke. In these instances, guests adhere to the customs established by the hosts. However, the situations become murky when travelers choose to express themselves through the garments of another culture. On one end, you have someone wearing an oversized sombrero or a plaid Maasai shuka at a Halloween party; on the other, someone being invited to wear a kimono in Kyoto. Determining where that line lies can be challenging, and questions of authenticity, agency, and appropriation inevitably arise.

“Curiosity and openness are essential qualities of a traveler,” says Thomas P. Farley, a New York-based etiquette expert known as Mister Manners, who frequently appears on the Today Show. “If we close ourselves off to new ideas, we may broaden our geographic reach but limit our perspectives. Therefore, before engaging in any local experiences—whether through our clothing choices or actions—we owe it to the locals to comprehend the significance behind their rituals and ensure we are genuinely welcome to participate.”

Back in Riyadh, the afternoon heat began to set in, and I felt unsettled by the online feedback. I had been greeted with warm smiles all day from locals who seemed to appreciate my enthusiasm, so I wasn’t ready to take off my thobe just yet. However, I did switch my starchy ghutrah for a baseball cap, something I noticed many locals doing.

“A thobe paired with a baseball cap, huh? You’d blend right in in Jeddah,” remarked a Saudi native who preferred to stay anonymous.

“People are still quite confused about clothing customs in the Middle East,” she continued. “Many believe Saudi women are obligated to wear abayas, but as of 2019, that’s no longer the case—nor are male chaperones or drivers required. Yet many of us still wear them from time to time. It’s a personal choice.”

“When I dress modestly, it’s often to show respect for the traditions of older locals,” she added (she was wearing jeans, heels, and no headscarf during our meeting). “Clothing doesn’t define who we are.”

Later that evening, I expressed my frustrations to another Saudi friend about the backlash I received on social media from my American peers. “I wish they could understand how pleased the locals are to see me in a thobe,” I sighed. My friend interrupted me, saying, “No, we are not proud that you wear a thobe. We’re not offended either. We’re indifferent.”

This was a vital and nuanced insight. My choice to wear a thobe doesn’t validate its significance. I needed to hear that for my own ego. It’s essential to remember that an outsider sporting traditional attire doesn’t elevate its worth. For me, donning a thobe was about looking good and blending in. I wasn’t trying to pass as Saudi, but I also didn’t want to draw attention to myself as a foreigner.

Some locals may grapple with their own feelings about traditional attire, which often go beyond mere style. For instance, some Saudis might prefer to wear Western clothing instead of a thobe. “The situation is often more intricate than we realize,” says Dr. Michael Hill, a cultural anthropologist and professor specializing in indigenous and tourism studies at Ecuador’s Universidad San Francisco de Quito. “Indigenous individuals here in the Andes may struggle with whether to wear or avoid traditional clothing, as it can be heavily racialized and stigmatized within the dominant society, leading to discrimination.”

Cultural groups may also have mixed feelings about outsiders adopting their clothing or style. “In Ecuador, I’ve encountered varied opinions from Afro-Ecuadorian women regarding the adoption of African-inspired hairstyles by outsiders. These opinions range from approval to strong criticism about the appropriation of braiding by whites or mestizos who might not grasp the historical and sociocultural context and may not experience the same level of everyday racism when they choose to adopt these styles,” she noted.

How can we steer clear of making insensitive mistakes? “When in doubt, consult a local. And keep asking until you get a satisfactory answer,” advises Mister Manners. “Avoid relying on shopkeepers, as their motivation may be to make a sale.”

Traveling offers us only limited glimpses into various cultures—and as travelers, we often see what we wish to see while overlooking the more complex aspects.

If your goal is simply to blend in or look presentable while traveling, remember that perceptions online matter too. Even if your attire has been approved by several locals, a photo may still evoke strong reactions from people in different places. This serves as an important reminder that while travel can be personally enriching, it is rarely an entirely individual experience.