Horror and beauty
On dignity, clothing, and what we owe each other
Horror and beauty.
Every time we sit down to talk about clothes, we look at the news — people being bombed, displaced, losing their lives—and think: does any of this really matter?
This is where we’re coming from. That feeling of futility, of powerlessness — wondering how fashion can matter when set against a backdrop of human suffering.
We mistrust easy answers. The world feels too fractured, too painful, to allow for certainty.
Is it irresponsible to talk about fashion right now?
Clothes document the human condition.
What people wear when everything falls apart is a story — one that speaks of dignity, resistance, and survival. Still, we recognise that we speak from a place of privilege. We can choose what to wear. For many, that choice no longer exists.
Throughout history, clothing has never been only about choice. It has been a form of resistance, a way to preserve identity, a silent protest. In moments of displacement, a garment can become the last piece of home a person carries.
Think of the garments of the displaced. What does a refugee wear? Clothes become tools: extra layers against the cold, hidden pockets for money, protection from the elements. What remains on the body is reduced, essential. And still, within that, there are gestures of agency.
A woman in Gaza evacuates wearing her neighbour’s borrowed sandals—her own destroyed in the chaos. She didn’t choose them; they were simply what was available. Weeks later, in a tent, she washes her only remaining dress by hand and hangs it to dry on a wire. This act is not about fashion. It is about dignity. In caring for that dress, she affirms, I am still here.
We still dress. In cities under siege or after natural disasters, people wash a shirt, mend a seam, fix a shoe. Not out of vanity, but to hold on to something human.
If clothing can be a tool of dignity, it can also be part of systems that strip it away. Not only in war zones, but in the everyday violence of how fashion is made. The way we produce and consume fashion is not neutral. It is tied to labour, to resources, to lives. Choosing differently, when we can, is one small way of refusing that indifference.
So is it irresponsible to discuss fashion right now?
It could be. We’re not sure. And maybe that uncertainty is the only honest place to start.
What we do know now is that it becomes meaningful if we use it as a door to talk about crimes against humanity and the planet—including who is bombing and what we can do. That includes naming power directly.
We’ve opened that door.
Writing, or doing our job in fashion, does not mean turning away from suffering. It means staying with the discomfort. And recognising that even in the darkest moments, people hold on to small, fragile expressions of self.
Without excess, we hold space for horror and for beauty. Not because we have an answer, but because letting go of either would mean losing what makes us who we are. Perfectly aware that for many, that horror doesn’t stop. So we use our platform to amplify these voices, to speak against Netanyahu’s government and the Trump regime devastating humanity.
As historian Timothy Snyder wrote on his Substack, Thinking About:
“If we do not say something ourselves about this horror, we allow ourselves to be changed.”
We don’t speak for the woman in Gaza. We cannot know what her dress means to her. What we can do is listen — and, where we can, act. And say clearly whose side we are on, because we do not want to normalise this.
Horror and beauty. We hold both.
What will you do with what you’ve just read?
