From the Editor: Scandinavian is just South Asian in disguise

The delicate shimmer and jingling of jhumkis, a dupatta to accompany a suit, the subtle addition of a bindi to complete a look, the smell of chai wafting through my house.

Samosas in hand, relatives form a lineup into the kitchen, all willing to help in a space too small to fit everyone. While someone’s preparing the evening naan, others have gone out to get kulfi. 

In another world, “chai tea” and “naan bread” are aesthetics, a dupatta is a Scandinavian scarf — a westernized invention, no doubt — jhumkis are just earrings, and mehndi is just decorative henna tattoos. In that world, my culture becomes someone else’s. It alienizes me.

And suddenly, it’s trendy because someone with skin lighter than mine validated its existence as their creation.

It’s OK if my culture inspires your creations — but it’s not OK for you to pretend that it’s yours without giving us credit. 

Flowing fabrics, vibrant colours, unconventional jewelry isn’t just boho chic or European with a mix of South Asian culture. Glamorous, coloured beadwork was not a part of the “Ibiza aesthetic” when the Indian subcontinent had started making and exporting stone beads as early as 2000 BC. Hand chains and chunky jewelry didn’t just become trendy all of a sudden when South Asian people have been wearing them for years.  

Brands like Reformation, Oh Polly, and H&M continue to take missteps when it comes to representing and appropriating elements of South Asian culture as accidental inspirations they weren’t aware of when making their designs. 

There is a line between cultural appreciation and appropriation when brands pretend that their creations aren’t inspired by cultural elements.

You cannot claim to support inclusivity and diversity. South Asian inclusion in fashion is not a “triumph” when we have been doing it for decades. It is not a “breakthrough moment” when luxury brands decide to steal from South Asians and claim a fashion item or design as their own. 

Nara Smith wearing a dupatta in her million-dollar kitchen didn’t make it cool. Emma Chamberlain wearing the Maharaja of Patiala’s necklace to the Met Gala to celebrate her appointment as a Cartier brand ambassador, while Diljit Dosanjh, a Punjabi Indian singer, was denied permission to wear it three years later to complete his royally-inspired look wasn’t cool either. 

Shaming us for and denying us of embracing our culture and then misrepresenting it as your own isn’t something new. While this misrepresentation might not always be intentional, it roots from a lack of knowledge and understanding of colonialism and South Asian history. 

While it’s refreshing to see non-South Asian people wear desi-inspired designs, doing so without giving us any credit does not only disrespect our experiences and culture but also discredits centuries of hard work that went into creating these pieces. 

The rise of South Asian brands like Blume, Kulfi Beauty, and Fable & Mane celebrate our work and diversity. But this representation shouldn’t just end at sending out Diwali boxes to influencers once a year. Outlets of creative expression like fashion, music, or food have historically served as breeding grounds for misrepresentation. 

Rebranding my culture into a Scandinavian summer scarf is one thing but profiting off of it at horrifying prices is another. Canadian brands aren’t exempt from misrepresentation. 

Dynamite recently launched a — now, almost sold out — “Satin Mini Tube Dress With Scarf” for $89.95. But I’m sure the over 600 people who liked the dress did not know about how the “scarf” is significant to South Asian culture.

I bet they didn’t know that the dupatta goes back centuries and has evolved from being a symbol of modesty and respect to an essential component of South Asian attire. Worn with a variety of traditional garments, the dupatta is ingrained in the cultures across India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and surrounding countries. 

Growing up, I have seen the women in my family wear it at home, to work, to school, not as a fashion statement, but as a necessity. A timeless cultural emblem, the dupatta has served as a symbol of grace. 

So in the future, if you decide to repackage my culture into some TikTok trend that would last two weeks or make it aesthetic to fit into the realms of what you consider “chic” and “European,” stop for a moment and think about how women and people in my culture have been colonised for centuries or had their work diminished in the name of cultural appropriation. 

Stealing my culture is not cool but sharing it with credit will always be.