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Im-Mortal Magenta
The Colour that Doesn’t Exist
My name is Ayham Hassan. I’m a Palestinian fashion design student based in London and Ramallah. My work is deeply rooted in my personal experiences growing up in the West Bank and is approached through a critical and analytical lens. I am dedicated to challenging and reshaping my reality through the expressive medium of fashion, drawing inspiration from the social customs and evolving culture in my city. Focusing on exploring the rich craftsmanship in Palestine, with a particular emphasis on tailoring, textiles, and draping. I actively collaborate with local artisans to incorporate their traditional techniques and expertise into my design and production process. By doing so, I aim to contribute to the preservation of Palestinian crafts and enhance the overall production cycle in my country, ensuring that these invaluable skills and traditions do not disappear, especially in the fast- evolving world we live in.
The unique aesthetic of my work is deeply influenced by the environment in which I was raised, characterized by a raw, primal, visceral, and earthy quality. This aesthetic is a reflection of the challenges I faced growing up under Israeli military occupation. To me, fashion is not simply a form of self-expression; it is a means of protection, at times from societal pressures, and always from the harsh realities of military occupation.
I firmly believe in the transformative power of design as a force for positive change and progress. Through my work, I seek to disrupt the fabric of constructed life in my community, prompting individuals to confront the pressing issues within Arab and Palestinian societies. By building upon traditional techniques and infusing them with innovative and sustainable production methods, I am committed to elevating design and industrial independence in Palestine and the Levant area. Additionally, I aspire to integrate the often-overlooked Palestinian identity into the global fashion industry.
إنهاليستثوبًاأخلعهاليوم،بلجلًداأمزقهبيد ّي.ولاهي فكرة أتركها ورائي، بل قلبًا حلو بالجوع والعطش
“It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and thirst.”
— Khalil Gibran, The Prophet (1923).
I have developed a collection that powerfully showcases my conceptual process for each look, utilizing primarily deadstock materials and end-of-stock leather skins. My selection includes an array of soft silk chiffon, woven silks, and vibrant shades of magenta. I have incorporated silk organza, rubber bands, faux leather cords, and knitted wool from Palestine. Additionally, my materials feature tulles, paper silks, metal embellishments, pleated paper, and hand-stitched woven cotton from Palestine, all contributing to a distinctive and impactful aesthetic.
Firstly, I confront the issue of cultural sustainability against the backdrop of the horrific genocide occurring in Gaza and the West Bank. My work is deeply inspired by the Magenta weaving technique and cross-stitch embroidery, which have cultural roots in the city of Majdal in Gaza. Regrettably, the last family practicing these traditional crafts faces severe intimidation from Israeli forces, with some members displaced to Egypt. Through the use of symbolic color and powerful motifs, I assertively document and celebrate the uniqueness of this heritage in every look of my graduate collection.
Secondly, I take a firm stance on environmental sustainability in the construction of my pieces. I have developed innovative zero-waste cutting techniques for each look, focusing intently on utilizing deadstock materials and leftover leather skins. My project has garnered sponsorship from Last Yarn Fabrics and support during my placement at Maison Givenchy. Together with my mother, I have crafted a wool knit scarf using wool sourced from local Palestinian shops, all while operating within a reparative production cycle. Furthermore, I proudly collaborated with eight exceptionally skilled female artisans specializing in cross-stitch embroidery; for them, this craft is a vital source of income for their households. In essence, my graduate collection is a powerful celebration of creativity and craft preservation from my hometown. It unapologetically addresses the devastating effects of genocide and war on the survival of a vibrant culture.
Incorporating my identity into my work is not just important; it is essential. I am committed to confronting socio-political issues within the fashion landscape and raising critical awareness of the industry’s environmental impacts. Through my designs, I will deliver bold statements that inspire change, foster meaningful dialogue, and promote a more thoughtful and responsible approach to fashion. My aim is to craft pieces that not only enhance personal expression but also challenge the status quo and elevate our collective voice.
CÉLINE: You moved to London four years ago to follow your dream. What was your dream?
AYHAM: My dream was always fashion. I’m fascinated by the incredible designers in London, like McQueen and Galliano. In Ramallah, there was not much of a scene. I started studying design at Birzeit University in Ramallah, and met the most incredible artists, like Amer Shomali and Omar Joseph Nasser Khoury (?). I was so privileged and honored to be taught by them. I ultimately realized that I wanted to have a career in fashion, and the goal became CSM (Central Saint Martins in London).
CÉLINE: How was the process to apply?
AYHAM: It was insane. It was literally like doing the impossible. But I applied, and got in. Then I had to face the complications of going and getting funded. At that time, I had incredible mentorship from Nol Collective (an intersectional feminist & political fashion collective out of Palestine) who were incredibly supportive. However, unfortunately, the government in Palestine does not acknowledge fashion as a serious topic, like art… There is an amazing art scene in Palestine. Just not much fashion. So, I started doing crowdfunding. The crowdfunding got picked up by people at Dazed (digital magazine - dazeddigital.com), Bella Hadid, and a lot of people in the industry, who shared it on Instagram. It was so humbling… The al-Quds al-taw’am (?) made Palestine kind of mainstream on Instagram. There is an interesting evolution in terms of what resistance is and how to communicate what we are fighting for and how to communicate our ideas on social media. Emma Davidson (Fashion Features Director at Dazed Media) wrote an article in Dazed that literally changed my life in one night. I got all my funding sorted out, and I got my sponsorship. Emma called me and said, “Prepare yourself… make sure you have an umbrella. London is rainy.”
CÉLINE: Your recent collection went viral, and it was in every single news outlet. I was so proud to see it… from GQ to Vogue to literally, everywhere. How was it for you to put out a collection? It’s so personal. Tell us a little bit about the process behind it, and the work in Palestine, the embroidery, the work with the oversized fabrics. Tell me about how you built this collection, and what it means to you.
AYHAM: At that time, with the genocide in Gaza and the effect of that in the West Bank and in the occupied Palestinian territories in the north, it was so insanely tough and difficult… We grew up with our families, our grandparents telling us horrific stories. And there’s so little documentation of what happened during the Nakba, and the Naksa, the Intifadas, and everything connected to Palestinian resistance. The late Ottoman Empire also fucked up the situation and made it possible for Israel to come about. I was studying and watching documentaries, listening to stories. What happened in Gaza happened before, and it’s happening again. And even worse. I was in shock. I was in mourning, and huge suffering, and I didn’t understand how to actually support the resistance other than posting and sharing and going to protests with my friends…
I’m in fashion, I’m a creator. I have a vision, and I have an identity that I want to share with the world. And I was aware that I needed to do something. I needed to reflect on my emotions and process everything. It was so tough to do this at UAL (University of the Arts London). Unfortunately, the show was sponsored by L’Oreal, which is complicit in the genocide. UAL is sponsored by a lot of companies that are complicit. It was really tough. But thank God the staff members and my tutors, all of them, reached out and reminded me that I was entitled to speak out. This collection, I’m not going to lie, was created in the context of being at CSM in London, but it was unapologetically about Palestine.
I’m afraid for my family, my friends, my loved ones, in Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine. It was a terrifying time, and it still is a terrifying time. It’s insane. I needed to address this reality. I could not just look through the archives of incredible designers from the ‘50s and ‘60s. I had to address what was (and is) happening to my country. I did months of research in Palestine. I was able to go to Palestine in the summer before I started my collection. I spent months looking at archives, at imagery. I learned how people were forced to leave their countries and sent to refugee camps in Jordan and Lebanon. I was looking at all of this, and I was really overwhelmed. I thought, how am I going to approach this? It was the quest for liberation and the reality of genocide. I wanted to look at the history of Gaza. I wanted to understand the power and resilience behind it. And it clicked for me, the magenta color. It looked like a symbol of resilience, a symbol of joy in the face of suffering and the horrific things that people were going through. It’s a color of beauty, it’s a color that demands, “Look at me. I’m here!” This is what Gaza is for me, and this is how I experienced it from the West Bank.
CÉLINE: Where did you start? Was the tatreez (Arabic word for Palestinian embroidery) on your work done in Palestine?
AYHAM: Yes. Because I grew up in Ramallah, I was able to connect with a network of embroiderers who are in the villages near Ramallah and Jerusalem. I’d worked with them before on one of my samples. And I was like, let me go back to that. It was a very complicated technique to develop in a short period of time. I used the embroidery, but I applied it maximally. I changed the sizing, the scale, the colors, and the placement of it. The embroidery was done by hand by eight women who, incredibly, used images I sent them to work from. They picked up my changes immediately. And of course, my mom and my aunties, my friends, and my neighbors were also checking with them and working with them. So that was beautiful, and it was really important for me, because I wanted my textiles to come from Palestine, I wanted them to have the feel of Palestinian hands. Their resilience. This is how we fight back.
The day of the show was so special. I had Sharon Rose, an incredible friend of mine, who came from Haifa to be part of it. My first model was Palestinian as well, from Ramallah. Sadly, my family could not come, but it was really interesting to meet the people who were able to be there. However, unfortunately, the school invited a designer who had served in the Israeli military to judge… And, we didn’t (and don’t) even know whether there will be a Palestine in two years, and that’s scary. That is very scary. This collection came from my reflection on that situation. Every look in the collection was specifically referenced with keywords. It told a very strong story, and the magenta was really striking. One of the pieces was a net that my mom knitted and embroidered by hand. I wanted her to be a part of it, and I wanted her to see it… we are in 2025, it’s not that complicated to travel from continent to continent, but this is how difficult it is in Palestine. You cannot actually travel easily. You have to go to Jordan. You have to cross all these checkpoints.
The Ottoman Empire made sure to kill the industries and starve the people who worked with silk in Lebanon. There’s a huge story about mulberry trees, silk, and the famine that the Ottoman Empire caused, which severely impacted the Lebanese people. And similarly, in Syria… so, we became the ones to provide the silks. There is a connection through the fabrics and the colors and the threads between our countries and our nations… People say I’m Palestinian, but I’m probably more Lebanese, more Syrian. We are all of the same ethnic makeup. When we look at the collection, we see this cry, this loud scream, this creative explosion of, look at me, look at me, I’m here… and it’s extremely moving. I think that’s why it’s touching a lot of people, and it’s going viral, because people need to see this in a way that is creative. It’s a counterbalance in such a powerful way to all the horror we are seeing.
Fashion is art to me. This virality has shown me that my work resonates on so many levels. It’s fashion, it’s design, it’s an explosion of creativity, and passion, and gender and sexuality expression. My collection is addressing the reality of genocide, the quest for liberation, and the inevitability of liberation. This is a collective liberation movement. It’s our right to scream and say, this is not okay! It is a genocide. It’s ethnic cleansing. During the show, they closed every door, they locked everything, they had police officers. My models were like, we have to do something. We have to carry signs. We have to show that this is not okay. My models, all of them, carried signs that said, “Boycott L’Oreal,” and “Free Palestine.” It was not even my suggestion. It was the models who decided to do this.
CÉLINE: Do you think your brand is punk? Do you fall in the punk lineage?
AYHAM: Maybe in the spirit of punk… it’s rebellious. We are living in very uncertain times in all industries. It’s very scary. I said everything I wanted. But unfortunately, they always tone it down. Change it a little bit. Of course, the staff are incredible and very pro-Palestinian, all of them, the tutors, students, everyone is… but the whole UAL multinational company… you just realize you don’t matter to anyone. They had a course fees reduction for Ukrainian students because they are going through the war, and I, as a Palestinian, didn’t receive any reduction. That was a huge what’s the deal? And why the hell do we have to have funding from L’Oreal to do a show to exhibit the most incredibly talented students, but we are living in a time if you’re not in that show, you’re not going to be shared. If you’re not posted, you’re not going to get a job. If you’re not shared, people are not seeing your work, and we deserve to show our work. You know, we worked super hard on it…
CÉLINE: What’s next for you? Where are you headed?
AYHAM: The ultimate goal is to open my own collective and work with students, work with designers and freelancers and artists in Palestine, in Lebanon and Syria, and Jordan, and hopefully make my statement in the industry. I have so much to say. I’m experiencing a genocide. My family is in Palestine. I am from Ramallah. I’m seeing all these stories, and at the same time, I have to be inspired. I have to be creative. I have to be on my best behavior, to be every day doing my best work. And I have to use different words to speak to people, and I have to approach it differently and humbly tone down. So which one? If it’s about being Palestinian, yes, it is about being Palestinian, about having to discuss really harsh topics in a fashion context. And this is what I’m providing to the industry. This is what I’m going to do every single season, every single year. This is what I’m going to speak about. This is what I’m going to approach.
CÉLINE: If you were to work at a big house, at a traditional fashion house, is there one you would want to be a part of?
AYHAM: Unfortunately, everything is complicit with everything horrible that I don’t stand for. And that’s why I have to do my own thing. Of course, I would love to work with Givenchy and Dior… You’re talking about years and years and years of craft, beautiful work, talented people, and the money to do the absolute best work. Unfortunately, I realized that I don’t have a space in that place because they are complicit. That’s why it is really important for me to do my own thing. I have so much to say on every topic, not just Palestine.
{
"article":
{
"title" : "Im-Mortal Magenta: The Colour that Doesn’t Exist",
"author" : "Ayham Hassan",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/ayham-hassan",
"date" : "2025-09-08 10:05:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/AYHAM-HASSAN-LOOK8.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "My name is Ayham Hassan. I’m a Palestinian fashion design student based in London and Ramallah. My work is deeply rooted in my personal experiences growing up in the West Bank and is approached through a critical and analytical lens. I am dedicated to challenging and reshaping my reality through the expressive medium of fashion, drawing inspiration from the social customs and evolving culture in my city. Focusing on exploring the rich craftsmanship in Palestine, with a particular emphasis on tailoring, textiles, and draping. I actively collaborate with local artisans to incorporate their traditional techniques and expertise into my design and production process. By doing so, I aim to contribute to the preservation of Palestinian crafts and enhance the overall production cycle in my country, ensuring that these invaluable skills and traditions do not disappear, especially in the fast- evolving world we live in.The unique aesthetic of my work is deeply influenced by the environment in which I was raised, characterized by a raw, primal, visceral, and earthy quality. This aesthetic is a reflection of the challenges I faced growing up under Israeli military occupation. To me, fashion is not simply a form of self-expression; it is a means of protection, at times from societal pressures, and always from the harsh realities of military occupation.I firmly believe in the transformative power of design as a force for positive change and progress. Through my work, I seek to disrupt the fabric of constructed life in my community, prompting individuals to confront the pressing issues within Arab and Palestinian societies. By building upon traditional techniques and infusing them with innovative and sustainable production methods, I am committed to elevating design and industrial independence in Palestine and the Levant area. Additionally, I aspire to integrate the often-overlooked Palestinian identity into the global fashion industry. إنهاليستثوبًاأخلعهاليوم،بلجلًداأمزقهبيد ّي.ولاهي فكرة أتركها ورائي، بل قلبًا حلو بالجوع والعطش “It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and thirst.”— Khalil Gibran, The Prophet (1923).I have developed a collection that powerfully showcases my conceptual process for each look, utilizing primarily deadstock materials and end-of-stock leather skins. My selection includes an array of soft silk chiffon, woven silks, and vibrant shades of magenta. I have incorporated silk organza, rubber bands, faux leather cords, and knitted wool from Palestine. Additionally, my materials feature tulles, paper silks, metal embellishments, pleated paper, and hand-stitched woven cotton from Palestine, all contributing to a distinctive and impactful aesthetic.Firstly, I confront the issue of cultural sustainability against the backdrop of the horrific genocide occurring in Gaza and the West Bank. My work is deeply inspired by the Magenta weaving technique and cross-stitch embroidery, which have cultural roots in the city of Majdal in Gaza. Regrettably, the last family practicing these traditional crafts faces severe intimidation from Israeli forces, with some members displaced to Egypt. Through the use of symbolic color and powerful motifs, I assertively document and celebrate the uniqueness of this heritage in every look of my graduate collection.Secondly, I take a firm stance on environmental sustainability in the construction of my pieces. I have developed innovative zero-waste cutting techniques for each look, focusing intently on utilizing deadstock materials and leftover leather skins. My project has garnered sponsorship from Last Yarn Fabrics and support during my placement at Maison Givenchy. Together with my mother, I have crafted a wool knit scarf using wool sourced from local Palestinian shops, all while operating within a reparative production cycle. Furthermore, I proudly collaborated with eight exceptionally skilled female artisans specializing in cross-stitch embroidery; for them, this craft is a vital source of income for their households. In essence, my graduate collection is a powerful celebration of creativity and craft preservation from my hometown. It unapologetically addresses the devastating effects of genocide and war on the survival of a vibrant culture.Incorporating my identity into my work is not just important; it is essential. I am committed to confronting socio-political issues within the fashion landscape and raising critical awareness of the industry’s environmental impacts. Through my designs, I will deliver bold statements that inspire change, foster meaningful dialogue, and promote a more thoughtful and responsible approach to fashion. My aim is to craft pieces that not only enhance personal expression but also challenge the status quo and elevate our collective voice.CÉLINE: You moved to London four years ago to follow your dream. What was your dream?AYHAM: My dream was always fashion. I’m fascinated by the incredible designers in London, like McQueen and Galliano. In Ramallah, there was not much of a scene. I started studying design at Birzeit University in Ramallah, and met the most incredible artists, like Amer Shomali and Omar Joseph Nasser Khoury (?). I was so privileged and honored to be taught by them. I ultimately realized that I wanted to have a career in fashion, and the goal became CSM (Central Saint Martins in London).CÉLINE: How was the process to apply?AYHAM: It was insane. It was literally like doing the impossible. But I applied, and got in. Then I had to face the complications of going and getting funded. At that time, I had incredible mentorship from Nol Collective (an intersectional feminist & political fashion collective out of Palestine) who were incredibly supportive. However, unfortunately, the government in Palestine does not acknowledge fashion as a serious topic, like art… There is an amazing art scene in Palestine. Just not much fashion. So, I started doing crowdfunding. The crowdfunding got picked up by people at Dazed (digital magazine - dazeddigital.com), Bella Hadid, and a lot of people in the industry, who shared it on Instagram. It was so humbling… The al-Quds al-taw’am (?) made Palestine kind of mainstream on Instagram. There is an interesting evolution in terms of what resistance is and how to communicate what we are fighting for and how to communicate our ideas on social media. Emma Davidson (Fashion Features Director at Dazed Media) wrote an article in Dazed that literally changed my life in one night. I got all my funding sorted out, and I got my sponsorship. Emma called me and said, “Prepare yourself… make sure you have an umbrella. London is rainy.”CÉLINE: Your recent collection went viral, and it was in every single news outlet. I was so proud to see it… from GQ to Vogue to literally, everywhere. How was it for you to put out a collection? It’s so personal. Tell us a little bit about the process behind it, and the work in Palestine, the embroidery, the work with the oversized fabrics. Tell me about how you built this collection, and what it means to you.AYHAM: At that time, with the genocide in Gaza and the effect of that in the West Bank and in the occupied Palestinian territories in the north, it was so insanely tough and difficult… We grew up with our families, our grandparents telling us horrific stories. And there’s so little documentation of what happened during the Nakba, and the Naksa, the Intifadas, and everything connected to Palestinian resistance. The late Ottoman Empire also fucked up the situation and made it possible for Israel to come about. I was studying and watching documentaries, listening to stories. What happened in Gaza happened before, and it’s happening again. And even worse. I was in shock. I was in mourning, and huge suffering, and I didn’t understand how to actually support the resistance other than posting and sharing and going to protests with my friends…I’m in fashion, I’m a creator. I have a vision, and I have an identity that I want to share with the world. And I was aware that I needed to do something. I needed to reflect on my emotions and process everything. It was so tough to do this at UAL (University of the Arts London). Unfortunately, the show was sponsored by L’Oreal, which is complicit in the genocide. UAL is sponsored by a lot of companies that are complicit. It was really tough. But thank God the staff members and my tutors, all of them, reached out and reminded me that I was entitled to speak out. This collection, I’m not going to lie, was created in the context of being at CSM in London, but it was unapologetically about Palestine.I’m afraid for my family, my friends, my loved ones, in Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine. It was a terrifying time, and it still is a terrifying time. It’s insane. I needed to address this reality. I could not just look through the archives of incredible designers from the ‘50s and ‘60s. I had to address what was (and is) happening to my country. I did months of research in Palestine. I was able to go to Palestine in the summer before I started my collection. I spent months looking at archives, at imagery. I learned how people were forced to leave their countries and sent to refugee camps in Jordan and Lebanon. I was looking at all of this, and I was really overwhelmed. I thought, how am I going to approach this? It was the quest for liberation and the reality of genocide. I wanted to look at the history of Gaza. I wanted to understand the power and resilience behind it. And it clicked for me, the magenta color. It looked like a symbol of resilience, a symbol of joy in the face of suffering and the horrific things that people were going through. It’s a color of beauty, it’s a color that demands, “Look at me. I’m here!” This is what Gaza is for me, and this is how I experienced it from the West Bank.CÉLINE: Where did you start? Was the tatreez (Arabic word for Palestinian embroidery) on your work done in Palestine?AYHAM: Yes. Because I grew up in Ramallah, I was able to connect with a network of embroiderers who are in the villages near Ramallah and Jerusalem. I’d worked with them before on one of my samples. And I was like, let me go back to that. It was a very complicated technique to develop in a short period of time. I used the embroidery, but I applied it maximally. I changed the sizing, the scale, the colors, and the placement of it. The embroidery was done by hand by eight women who, incredibly, used images I sent them to work from. They picked up my changes immediately. And of course, my mom and my aunties, my friends, and my neighbors were also checking with them and working with them. So that was beautiful, and it was really important for me, because I wanted my textiles to come from Palestine, I wanted them to have the feel of Palestinian hands. Their resilience. This is how we fight back.The day of the show was so special. I had Sharon Rose, an incredible friend of mine, who came from Haifa to be part of it. My first model was Palestinian as well, from Ramallah. Sadly, my family could not come, but it was really interesting to meet the people who were able to be there. However, unfortunately, the school invited a designer who had served in the Israeli military to judge… And, we didn’t (and don’t) even know whether there will be a Palestine in two years, and that’s scary. That is very scary. This collection came from my reflection on that situation. Every look in the collection was specifically referenced with keywords. It told a very strong story, and the magenta was really striking. One of the pieces was a net that my mom knitted and embroidered by hand. I wanted her to be a part of it, and I wanted her to see it… we are in 2025, it’s not that complicated to travel from continent to continent, but this is how difficult it is in Palestine. You cannot actually travel easily. You have to go to Jordan. You have to cross all these checkpoints.The Ottoman Empire made sure to kill the industries and starve the people who worked with silk in Lebanon. There’s a huge story about mulberry trees, silk, and the famine that the Ottoman Empire caused, which severely impacted the Lebanese people. And similarly, in Syria… so, we became the ones to provide the silks. There is a connection through the fabrics and the colors and the threads between our countries and our nations… People say I’m Palestinian, but I’m probably more Lebanese, more Syrian. We are all of the same ethnic makeup. When we look at the collection, we see this cry, this loud scream, this creative explosion of, look at me, look at me, I’m here… and it’s extremely moving. I think that’s why it’s touching a lot of people, and it’s going viral, because people need to see this in a way that is creative. It’s a counterbalance in such a powerful way to all the horror we are seeing.Fashion is art to me. This virality has shown me that my work resonates on so many levels. It’s fashion, it’s design, it’s an explosion of creativity, and passion, and gender and sexuality expression. My collection is addressing the reality of genocide, the quest for liberation, and the inevitability of liberation. This is a collective liberation movement. It’s our right to scream and say, this is not okay! It is a genocide. It’s ethnic cleansing. During the show, they closed every door, they locked everything, they had police officers. My models were like, we have to do something. We have to carry signs. We have to show that this is not okay. My models, all of them, carried signs that said, “Boycott L’Oreal,” and “Free Palestine.” It was not even my suggestion. It was the models who decided to do this.CÉLINE: Do you think your brand is punk? Do you fall in the punk lineage?AYHAM: Maybe in the spirit of punk… it’s rebellious. We are living in very uncertain times in all industries. It’s very scary. I said everything I wanted. But unfortunately, they always tone it down. Change it a little bit. Of course, the staff are incredible and very pro-Palestinian, all of them, the tutors, students, everyone is… but the whole UAL multinational company… you just realize you don’t matter to anyone. They had a course fees reduction for Ukrainian students because they are going through the war, and I, as a Palestinian, didn’t receive any reduction. That was a huge what’s the deal? And why the hell do we have to have funding from L’Oreal to do a show to exhibit the most incredibly talented students, but we are living in a time if you’re not in that show, you’re not going to be shared. If you’re not posted, you’re not going to get a job. If you’re not shared, people are not seeing your work, and we deserve to show our work. You know, we worked super hard on it…CÉLINE: What’s next for you? Where are you headed?AYHAM: The ultimate goal is to open my own collective and work with students, work with designers and freelancers and artists in Palestine, in Lebanon and Syria, and Jordan, and hopefully make my statement in the industry. I have so much to say. I’m experiencing a genocide. My family is in Palestine. I am from Ramallah. I’m seeing all these stories, and at the same time, I have to be inspired. I have to be creative. I have to be on my best behavior, to be every day doing my best work. And I have to use different words to speak to people, and I have to approach it differently and humbly tone down. So which one? If it’s about being Palestinian, yes, it is about being Palestinian, about having to discuss really harsh topics in a fashion context. And this is what I’m providing to the industry. This is what I’m going to do every single season, every single year. This is what I’m going to speak about. This is what I’m going to approach.CÉLINE: If you were to work at a big house, at a traditional fashion house, is there one you would want to be a part of?AYHAM: Unfortunately, everything is complicit with everything horrible that I don’t stand for. And that’s why I have to do my own thing. Of course, I would love to work with Givenchy and Dior… You’re talking about years and years and years of craft, beautiful work, talented people, and the money to do the absolute best work. Unfortunately, I realized that I don’t have a space in that place because they are complicit. That’s why it is really important for me to do my own thing. I have so much to say on every topic, not just Palestine."
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"title" : "Dignity Before Stadiums:: Morocco’s Digital Uprising",
"author" : "Cheb Gado",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/dignity-before-stadiums",
"date" : "2025-10-02 09:08:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Morocco_GenZ.jpg",
"excerpt" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.",
"content" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.One of the sharpest contradictions fueling the protests was the billions poured into World Cup-related preparations, while ordinary citizens remained marginalized when it came to healthcare and education.This awareness quickly turned into chants and slogans echoing through the streets: “Dignity begins with schools and hospitals, not with putting on a show for the world.”What set this movement apart was not only its presence on the streets, but also the way it reinvented protest itself:Live filming: Phone cameras revealed events moment by moment, exposing abuses instantly.Memes and satire: A powerful weapon to dismantle authority’s aura, turning complex political discourse into viral, shareable content.Decentralized networks: No leader, no party, just small, fast-moving groups connected online, able to appear and disappear with agility.This generation doesn’t believe in grand speeches or delayed promises. They demand change here and now. Moving seamlessly between the physical and digital realms, they turn the street into a stage of revolt, and Instagram Live into an alternative media outlet.What’s happening in Morocco strongly recalls the Arab Spring of 2011, when young people flooded the streets with the same passion and spontaneity, armed only with belief in their power to spark change. But Gen Z added their own twist, digital tools, meme culture, and the pace of a hyper-connected world.Morocco’s Gen Z uprising is not just another protest, but a living experiment in how a digital generation can redefine politics itself. The spark may fade, but the mark it leaves on young people’s collective consciousness cannot be erased.Photo credits: Mosa’ab Elshamy, Zacaria Garcia, Abdel Majid Bizouat, Marouane Beslem"
}
,
{
"title" : "A Shutdown Exposes How Fragile U.S. Governance Really Is",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/a-shutdown-exposes-how-fragile-us-governance-really-is",
"date" : "2025-10-01 22:13:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Gov_ShutDown.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.",
"content" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.Shutdowns don’t mean the government stops functioning. They mean millions of federal workers are asked to keep the system running without pay. Air traffic controllers, border patrol agents, food inspectors — people whose jobs underpin both public safety and economic life — are told their labor matters, but their livelihoods don’t. People have to pay the price of bad bureaucracy in the world’s most powerful country, if governance is stalled, workers must pay with their salaries and their groceries.In 1995 and 1996, clashes between President Bill Clinton and House Speaker Newt Gingrich triggered two shutdowns totaling 27 days. In 2013, a 16-day standoff over the Affordable Care Act furloughed 850,000 workers. And in 2018–2019, the longest shutdown in U.S. history stretched 35 days, as President Trump refused to reopen the government without funding for a border wall. That impasse left 800,000 federal employees without paychecks and cost the U.S. economy an estimated $11 billion — $3 billion of it permanently lost.More troubling is what happens when crises strike during shutdowns. The United States is living in an age of accelerating climate disasters: historic floods in Vermont, wildfire smoke choking New York, hurricanes pounding Florida. These emergencies do not pause while Congress fights over budgets. Yet a shutdown means furloughed NOAA meteorologists, suspended EPA enforcement, and delayed FEMA programs. In the most climate-vulnerable decade of our lifetimes, we are choosing paralysis over preparedness.This vulnerability didn’t emerge overnight. For decades, the American state has been hollowed out under the logic of austerity and privatization, while military spending has remained sacrosanct. That imbalance is why budgets collapse under the weight of endless resources for war abroad, too few for resilience at home.Shutdowns send a dangerous message. They normalize instability. They tell workers they are disposable. They make clear that in our system, climate resilience and public health aren’t pillars of our democracy but rather insignificant in the face of power and greed. And each time the government closes, it becomes easier to imagine a future where this isn’t the exception but the rule.The United States cannot afford to keep running on shutdown politics. The climate crisis, economic inequality, and the challenges of sustaining democracy itself demand continuity, not collapse. We need a politics that treats stability and resilience not as partisan victories, but as basic commitments to one another. Otherwise, the real shutdown isn’t just of the government — it’s of democracy itself."
}
,
{
"title" : "There Was, There Was Not: Cinema as Collective Memory",
"author" : "Emily Mkrtichian",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/this-essay-was-written-on-the-eve-of-the-five-year-anniversary-of-the-first-day-of-the-2020-artsakh-war",
"date" : "2025-10-01 16:06:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_10_1_There_Was_Film.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "Join us for the New York Screening:7:00pm: Screening Begins8:30-9:00pm: Q&A with Celine and Emily9:15-11:30: Party at DCTV with small bites and DJEIP members 20% OFF CODE: Get your tickets hereCinema holds a singular place in our imagination, opening a shared space of possibility in both our individual and collective consciousness. At first, this might seem less true for nonfiction cinema, yet over nearly a decade of making my first feature, I’ve come to believe it has the power to cast a spell on how we experience reality and remember the past.In making There Was, There Was Not, I lived through a historical moment that became a fundamental rupture and trauma for my people - and now I can’t help but think about the archive obsessively. Its multitude of shortcomings but also its infinite potential and pivotal importance. My grandmothers and aunts were my personal archive - they taught me about the history of my family, which was also the history of our people. When your past is defined by movement and displacement, your lineage becomes a cultural encyclopedia, an embodied record of larger geopolitical events. The personal is political in every way.When I began making the film in 2016 it was originally meant to be a celebration of women like my grandmothers and aunts. These women are the stubborn, tender keepers of history and makers of a better future that I met and became close with during my time in the Republic of Artsakh - an ethnically Armenian autonomous region that fell into dispute after the fall of the Soviet Union. Artsakh was functioning as a de facto state for nearly three decades, and for Armenians, it is a symbol of self-determination, resistance, and the need to hold onto lands that have been systematically taken from us through violent means for more than a century. The formation of the republic of Artsakh was full of tales of freedom fighters, heroes and martyrs (mostly men), who gave their life so that our connection to our lands would remain unbroken. I envied this tenuous yet determined connection to place. My grandparents fled their village in Turkey during the 1915 genocide, and relocated several times before settling in Iran. So as someone who had been disconnected from land and history for two generations, I wanted to document women’s connection to it and fight for it. For all these reasons, I started filming with four women who were all fighting in their own way - fighting for Artsakh to be the place they dreamed and believed it could be.I have so many vivid memories of my time in Artsakh. It’s hard to describe the beauty of that place, but let me try. I know that remembering the joy I experienced there is some kind of conjuring.In Artsakh, it felt as if you were always surrounded by mountains. Everywhere you turned, there were thousand-year-old stone churches, ice-cold rushing rivers, lush wet forests, and sharp cliff lines threatening to drop out a thousand feet onto a green valley floor. The people were completely unhinged in their love for their homeland and their absolute existence in the present. I’ve never made so many toasts, ate so much fresh tonir bread, sat in cars with unknown destinations awaiting me, and cracked as many walnut shells in my hands as when I was in Artsakh.As I describe this ethereal, joyous existence, I can feel myself becoming wary and anxious about the next part of my story. I felt this way for years while I was making the film. One of the of women, Sose, expressed it perfectly in 2021 when I asked her, “Do you remember the first day the war started?” and she responded, “Yeah, but let me stay in this life.” She meant the life before. The life that exists in her memory and in mine. The life that overflowed with joy, abundance and freedom – however precarious.On the morning of September 27th in 2020, in the middle of COVID and 4 years into making my film, Artsakh was attacked along its borders and in its civilian cities.This is the day I became aware that my body is an archive.Over the next 45 days, I lived mostly in a bomb shelter and held desperately onto a camera like it was a lifeline that could convince the world - out there, looming, ignoring us - that this injustice must end. As it turns out, a camera is not capable of this. Or, the world is not capable of being truly moved to collective action by way of images alone. What the camera did do, though, was tether my life to the lives of the four women in wildly intimate and unexpected ways. Together, we learned the names of all major long and short-range missiles, drones, and rockets - and the specific sounds they made. We did everything in our power to help the thousands of people around us who were suffering. We fled in fear and returned in desperate need of proximity to each other and this place. We were not safe but felt that together somehow we could summon the strength to remain on that land and stay alive for as long as possible.As I watched and filmed, I felt something in my own body wake up. It guided me via intuition and care, and forms of knowledge I have never been able to put into words. It was everything my great grandmothers and grandmothers witnessed in their lifetimes, imprinted in my DNA, becoming available to me as an archive in my own body. I drew on that knowledge and strength and intuitive force constantly, and I know that it kept me alive.And I captured every moment I could, holding it in frames to keep it from disappearing, to grant it power and authority.And we watched as a place we loved deeply began to disappear in front of our eyes.In 2023, after nine months of being blockaded and deprived of food, fuel, and freedom of movement, Artsakh was ethnically cleansed of its remaining 120,000 Armenian residents, marking the end of thousands of years of our presence on that land.That is where my film ends.But for me, and for the women I filmed, and for the people of Artsakh, the story did not.Our witnessing and our memories became an archive for future resistance. As women, we pass on this knowledge in intimate ways—by creating lives imprinted with our experiences and by caring for, teaching and being in service to those around us.Ultimately, this work became a collaborative archive of relationships between women and our connection to a place that we no longer have access to. The act of watching the film together allows us to summon this land and the life lived on it through our collective imagination and psyche. In this way, cinema becomes an extension of the archive our bodies hold as witnesses—transforming into a tool to conjure Artsakh, bringing it back into existence and, as Sose said, allowing us to stay in that life and let it live into the future.There Was, There Was Not, titled after the Armenian version of “Once Upon a Time,” – the phrase that opened the stories I was raised on—is my way of honoring this evolving understanding of the archive and of cinema’s power to open new imaginative possibilities on the present, past and future. It is also a beginning, a foundation for future projects like Cartographies of Memories, a somatic, multimedia archive of Artsakh that continues this work of remembrance.Every image I captured became a finite archive, and now my work is to add to it.Cinematic work can be a subversion of erasure, transforming the archival act into something living, relational, and generative. It does not only preserve but imagines, offering a way to resist forgetting and to dream into a future where what was lost can still be carried forward.Let cinema be an act of creative resistance."
}
]
}
