On a recent visit to Gaza, Steve Witkoff, the real estate mogul and Donald Trump’s special envoy to the Middle East, wore a “camouflage” top. I write “camouflage” in inverted commas because it was blue and, amid the dusty devastation of Gaza, there was nothing about it – or the bumbag he wore with it – that helped Witkoff blend in.

It’s an odd paradox that a pattern designed to melt military personnel into their surroundings – the word is derived from the French camoufler, “to disguise” – when worn by certain people, in certain ways, does the opposite. Witkoff being a glaring example.

But camouflage is chameleon-like. Militaristic or pacifist, Britpop or British army, there’s arguably no pattern that has a more functional original purpose or greater adaptability when deployed far from the battlefield. Context is king and camouflage reads wildly differently when it appears on a tie worn by the hawkish veteran and “secretary of war” Pete Hegseth, on the Louis Vuitton catwalk, in the fields of Glastonbury or even at a protest against conflict: one person’s sabre rattling is another’s anti-war statement.

It is perhaps its adaptability that means it has moments, such as now, of increased popularity. Style-wise it’s a symptom of the throwback-Y2K moment and, from Gap to Next, Damson Madder to JW Anderson, it’s not blending in everywhere. In the US, hunting camo has been spotted adorning everything from Kamala Harris and Tim Walz baseball caps to rightwing libertarians.

On the one hand camo is, says Vogue, “a stylish alternative to denim”, available at democratically low prices, as well as a relatively sustainable option – the likes of eBay are awash with camo clothing. On the other hand, it isn’t just a pattern in the way of gingham or paisley – the rise of camouflage was a symptom of the increased destructiveness of modern warfare, and even today its military associations are so entrenched that in certain countries it’s not allowed to be worn by non-military personnel. In several Caribbean nations, for instance, it’s prohibited other than for active members of the police or military. The South African National Defence Force recently issued a warning to the public to stop wearing its camouflage.

For civilians, there are statements to be made because of its military associations: a countercultural vibe is what brought camouflage to the backs of Vietnam war protesters and Jimi Hendrix. Pacifists wearing it are leveraging its military footing. For others, such as the former Moschino designer Jeremy Scott, “camo is a classic, no different than plaid or polka dots”. Even Claudia sodding Winkleman has worn it in the past. It can, no doubt, be fun to wear – I would know, having spent the late 90s singing along to Never Ever in All Saints-inspired camo combats.

It feels natural that it’s having, for want of a better word, this moment. The world feels tumultuous. It perhaps always has done. But there’s evidence to suggest it is increasingly turbulent – one nonprofit organisation recently estimated that in the past five years global conflict had doubled, and that one in eight people worldwide had been exposed to it.

There are devastating conflicts taking place in the midst of civilian populations, in the cities of Sudan and Ukraine and in Gaza. In the US, troops are being deployed to city streets in unprecedented ways, inspiring a recent New York Times piece delineating the different camouflage uniforms of the federal forces, from the national guard to ICE.

Fashion, both in the sense of what is sent down the catwalks but also in the everyday – the person picking up a camo jacket from army surplus or Depop – is in communication with all of this, whether consciously or subliminally. Look to Elsa Schiaparelli, who presented a military-themed collection in the run-up to war being declared in 1930s France. Fashion loves drama, and nothing, tragically, is more dramatic than war.

Civilians wanting to wear camo could be responding to a scary world, knowingly nodding to it; they could be making a pointed anti-war statement or one of battle-readiness even while picking up a pint of milk. But, in an increasingly divided world, how it might be received feels more and more blurry. And the idea of wearing, for fun, a print designed to help people avoid detection is an added complication when you consider it through the lens of those living in conflict zones who really are unable to hide.

More broadly, the politics of who gets to wear civilian or military garb feels increasingly fraught – look at the political fights over Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s military-style outfits and his decision to not wear civilian suits until war in his country is over. Melania Trump’s military-style get-ups can feel uncomfortably close to martial cosplay, such as the time she wore a “dictator chic” Alexander McQueen khaki green suit to the 2020 Republican national convention.

Questions of camo’s “appropriateness” are in the ether. It was the subject of a New York Times piece last summer in which the fashion critic Vanessa Friedman said she was officially changing her stance on it. The last time she received a query asking: “Can I still wear camo?” was in 2021, just after the Capitol insurrection – a number of those in the mob were wearing it. At the time, she suggested camo was OK as long as it was clearly a fashion item and didn’t look like a uniform. This year, however, she said she was changing her advice on the basis of respect for the military, having received a letter from a veteran who called the fashion choice “akin to stolen valour”. But also, the state of the world. As Friedman put it: “Wearing camouflage as a fashion statement seems like an increasingly tone-deaf and potentially dangerous choice.”

All of which is to say that camouflage is complicated and the very context making it feel relevant is also what is making it feel especially loaded. Do I think it’s inappropriate? No. Do I want this camo T-shirt but think I might feel a bit icky wearing it? Yes.