The Politics of the Female Image
Across borders, regimes and ideologies, one figure keeps reappearing: the woman. Not just as a citizen, but as a symbol, a story, a stage. Femininity has become central to how power presents itself—modest or modern, veiled or unveiled, maternal or militant. The spectacle of the political woman is no longer about individual agency; it is about choreography. Who gets to be visible? And at what cost?
From Kabul to Kyiv, from Washington to Kigali, female visibility has been weaponised in the theatre of nationhood. Sometimes it signals progress; other times, tradition. Often, it masks repression. Either way, it is no accident. The performance of femininity is being carefully curated and exported, shaped not only by national governments but also by global audiences hungry for legible, photogenic narratives of power.
The Symbol and the State
Consider the paradox of Asma al-Assad, Syria’s First Lady. Western-educated, fluent in finance, once profiled by Vogue as “a rose in the desert”. Her polished public image—hosting orphans, smiling beside her husband Bashar—served to humanise a regime accused of atrocities. While bombs fell on Homs, her Instagram page showed bookshelves and ballet flats. She did not need to speak for the regime. She became its visual grammar.
This isn’t unique. Egypt’s Abdel Fattah el-Sisi often frames himself as a champion of women’s advancement. He appoints women ministers and praises mothers on national holidays. Yet his government has arrested female TikTok influencers for “indecency” and has targeted survivors who report sexual assault. The message is clear: femininity is welcome—as long as it is state-sanctioned, non-threatening, and aesthetic.
Rwanda is frequently hailed for its gender parity—women make up over 60% of the parliament. But critics note that political participation does not equal power, especially in a country where dissent is often crushed. In these environments, women’s inclusion can become a form of camouflage: a show of progress that diverts attention from repression.
Dress Codes and Power Codes
The politics of dress is among the most visible ways states regulate femininity. In Iran, the hijab is not just a religious symbol—it’s a national mandate. The state’s preferred woman is covered, devout, and maternal. But after the death of 22-year-old Mahsa Amini in 2022, allegedly for wearing her hijab “improperly”, women across the country tore off their scarves in protest. In doing so, they made themselves visible—not as icons of state virtue, but as agents of resistance.
Contrast that with the United States, where femininity is less prescribed but no less politicised. Right-wing influencers promote the “tradwife”—a pastel-tinted domestic goddess who bakes, submits, and votes Republican. Figures like Marjorie Taylor Greene mix pearls and pugilism, presenting femininity as both soft power and a sharp weapon. Even in liberal circles, women leaders are scrutinised for their tone, looks, and likability.
In India, the ruling BJP celebrates warrior queens and goddesses while sidelining dissenting women—particularly Muslims and Dalits. Women aligned with the Hindu nationalist vision are elevated; those who question it are harassed or silenced. Femininity here is a cultural archive—something to be guarded, invoked, and policed.
In Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim-majority democracy, local ordinances in conservative provinces require female civil servants to wear hijab, regardless of personal belief. Yet in urban centres like Jakarta, a cosmopolitan feminism flourishes online. The contrast reveals a fragmented pipeline: one shaped by region, religion, class, and the appetite for modernity.
Women at War
In war zones, the politicisation of femininity takes on another register. In Ukraine, women have become emblems of resistance: posing in fatigues, braiding hair before battle, and holding babies in bomb shelters. These images spread fast, offering the world a digestible, photogenic heroism. But they rarely include the messy, complicated truths of displacement, assault, or ideological disagreement.
In Russia, women are deployed to show devotion to the state: wives waving goodbye to soldiers, girls marching in patriotic parades. In Israel, women in uniform are part of a long-standing PR strategy—proof of gender inclusion in a military often criticised for its occupation policies.
In Colombia, former guerrilla fighters of the FARC now feature in peace-building campaigns, often feminised in soft-focus photo essays. Meanwhile, Afro-Colombian women displaced by conflict continue to fight for land rights, their struggles largely ignored by mainstream media.
What’s missing from these images are the women who say no—who organise for peace, who protest military budgets, and who refuse to be symbols. Visibility, in these contexts, is granted not for speaking truth but for serving narrative.
The Digital Frontline
Social media has supercharged the global circulation of politicised femininity. It has also narrowed it. Platforms reward content that is glossy, agreeable, and legible. That often means boosting women who conform to existing archetypes: beautiful but not confrontational, bold but not radical.
In Pakistan, the military has developed relationships with lifestyle influencers who push nationalist messages. In China, the government promotes “positive energy” influencers—women who endorse family values, patriotism, and social harmony. Those who veer off-script are shadowbanned, silenced or worse.
Even in open societies, women of colour, trans women, and other marginalised voices often face harsher scrutiny. Algorithms do not just reflect bias, they amplify it. Feminism that comes in digestible formats (self-care, girlboss slogans, pastel infographics) thrives. But systemic critique, intersectional analysis, or discomforting truths are often suppressed in favour of smoother content.
TikTok has further blurred the lines. In Kenya, female influencers create viral dances to election campaign jingles, paid by political parties. In the Philippines, vloggers build entire careers endorsing strongmen candidates. These digital performances may seem apolitical, but they shape perceptions, especially among young voters.
Tokenism and the Trap of Inclusion
We are not living in an era without women in power. From Kamala Harris to Giorgia Meloni, from Jacinda Ardern to Kaja Kallas, women occupy high office. But inclusion is not liberation. Representation, stripped of critique, becomes theatre.
In Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro’s government praised traditional Christian women while gutting protections for abuse survivors. In the Philippines, Imelda Marcos became synonymous with luxury and denial, even as she was woven into the myth of national strength. In Bangladesh, both Sheikh Hasina and Khaleda Zia led the country for decades—but their rule often sidelined grassroots feminist concerns.
In Uganda, First Lady Janet Museveni heads the Ministry of Education and Sports, promoting a conservative moral code. Her prominence is often cited as proof of women’s empowerment, even as LGBTQ+ rights are systematically eroded and reproductive health campaigns are defunded.
It is not enough to ask whether women are in power. We must ask: which women? On what terms? And at whose expense?
Disobedient Bodies
Yet, not all femininity bends to the pipeline. Across the globe, there are women resisting both invisibility and instrumentalisation. They do not always go viral. Their work is slow, local, and often dangerous.
In South Africa, queer women and non-binary activists are reclaiming public spaces through protest art and poetry. In Chile, feminist collectives helped rewrite the country’s constitution. In Kashmir, women document disappearances and demand justice in the face of both state and insurgent violence.
In Brazil’s favelas, Black mothers of police brutality victims have formed community networks to demand justice. Their voices are often excluded from mainstream media, yet their grassroots organising is reshaping local politics.
These are not curated icons. They are messy, brave, and inconvenient to power. And that’s precisely why they matter.
Reframing the Frame
The global performance of politicised femininity is seductive because it feels like progress. Look—a woman minister! A female soldier! A hijabi on the front page! But if we look closer, we see the scaffolding beneath: the terms of visibility are tightly controlled.
To break the pipeline, we must do more than diversify who is seen. We must ask who controls the gaze. Feminism must not become just another style — it must remain a challenge, a critique, a question.
What would it mean to be seen—not as decoration, not as proof of modernity—but as full, political beings? What would it mean to centre women who do not perform acceptability? Who are not easy to digest?
The answers won’t fit into a headline. But perhaps that is the point.
Beyond the Optics
The pipeline of politicised femininity is slick, global, and endlessly adaptive. But it is not inevitable. Across continents, women are disrupting its flow—through protest, through storytelling, through refusal.
Their work reminds us that visibility is not the final goal. The real task is agency: to shape one’s image, voice, and future on one’s own terms.
Until then, we watch the parade: the minister in her heels, the soldier with her gun, the influencer in her kitchen. We see them. But we also see the hands shaping the frame.
