By Raiyana Malik
Recently, there has been a lot of online discourse about the Westernization of South Asian clothing — and with good reason. This isn’t the first time our traditions have been repackaged — it’s just the latest chapter in a centuries-long story of aesthetic theft.
Throughout history, European cultures have stolen from people of colour: from the regalia of Indigenous peoples to Black hairstyles and music to “chai tea” (you’re literally saying tea twice). And all of it happens under a deeply rooted belief in white superiority — a belief that things only become beautiful, valuable or classy once someone with fairer skin wears them. Absurdity, right?
Lately, fashion brands like Reformation and Oh Polly have released pieces that bear a striking resemblance to traditional South Asian garments — specifically the dupatta, a long scarf or head covering worn by women. These brands feature white models draping thin, sheer scarves around their necks — mimicking dupattas, but without credit or context. Many social media users are calling it a classy new scarf trend, praising it as minimalist, European and effortlessly chic.
What they don’t realize, or don’t care to acknowledge, is that scarves and shawls didn’t just show up in Europe on their own. They were taken there. The whole aesthetic was borrowed dismissively, and without permission. Hmm…reminds me of a word that starts with “colon” and ends in “ization.”
The dupatta — also known as a chunni, odhni, chaddar, lugda and other names across the subcontinent — has been part of South Asian clothing for centuries. Worn across Pakistan, India, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh and neighbouring countries, it’s a long, draping scarf that accompanies outfits like shalwar kameez, lehengas and saris. For many, it’s a symbol of modesty. For others, it’s ceremonial, elegant or nostalgic. It’s an heirloom passed down, a marker of womanhood, a statement of culture and in diaspora communities, a reminder of home and identity.
So when white women and fast fashion brands parade dupatta-like scarves without acknowledging their roots, it doesn’t just sting — it feels like a slap in the face. These brands post campaign images dripping in Desi aesthetics while positioning their looks as “Scandinavian summer wedding guest.” Audiences eat it up, calling it sophisticated, luxurious, refined — as if the South Asian women who made it beautiful never existed.
TikTok creator @tamillionaire4eva breaks it down bluntly, referencing the Westernization of our clothes and saying, “We’re not sharing. Those are the rules. And we get to make them because we made the outfits.” In @museerar’s rant, she says, “We’re being colonized all over again. Because they’re taking what’s ours and making it theirs in a place and time that’s convenient for them.”
And this isn’t new. In fact, it’s centuries old.
According to an article from the AGO about an oil painting of Anna Maria Walton Beck Boulton wearing a shawl of unknown origins, the Kashmiri cashmere and pashmina trade flourished in the late 1700s. British colonizers, fascinated by the region’s textiles, began exporting these shawls back to Europe. They became coveted items among elites — gifted, collected, and eventually copied. French and British manufacturers began replicating the buta (or boteh) motifs from Kashmir and Persia, mass-producing them in towns like Paisley, Scotland, and thus the “paisley print” was born. The name stuck. The origin was erased.
This cycle of aesthetic theft has repeated itself time and again. Afghan coats have been rebranded as “Penny Lane” coats. TikToker Mina breaks it down in a video tracing how The Beatles helped popularize the Afghan coat in the West during the late 60s to early 70s, and how the film Almost Famous cemented it as a Western fashion symbol. Kate Hudson’s character, Penny Lane, wears an Afghan coat, and ever since the film’s release in 2000, the garment has been called the “Penny Lane coat.”
“They named something that came from Afghanistan after a white woman,” Mina says.
Or take Pamela Anderson in an Oscar de la Renta gown nearly identical to a Somali dirac — labelled instead as a kaftan instead on social media. Not the same thing at all.
And it goes beyond clothing. Chai becomes “chai tea.” Haldi doodh becomes “golden milk” or a “turmeric latte.” “Sticky bangs” and “brownie glazed lips” — coined by white influencers — are just the latest chapter in a long history of BIPOC aesthetics being rebranded for white-led platforms. I’ve heard countless stories of Brown and Black girls being bullied for their looks growing up — pigmented lips, thick edges, braided hair — only to see the same traits go viral once rebranded by a European.
What’s even more frustrating is the silence from major fashion media. Aside from a few digital pieces — the New York Times, Harper’s Bazaar India and FASHION Magazine (a Canadian outlet) — most legacy publications haven’t said a word. Not Vogue. Not even Vogue India. The silence is deafening.
Meanwhile, creators across TikTok and Instagram are stepping up — calling out brands, educating audiences and preserving cultural memory. Their comments are full of support, but also full of hate — accusations of gatekeeping, overreacting and even racism. All for pointing out that culture is not a costume.
But here’s what many people still don’t understand: this conversation isn’t just about fabric.
It’s about erasure. It’s about watching our culture be picked apart and repackaged, praised when it’s on white bodies but policed or mocked when it’s on ours. It’s about how colonialism never really left — it just moved into marketing departments and trend forecasts.
This anger has been simmering for generations. Behind every stitched TikTok, every Reddit post, every impassioned comment thread is a community tired of watching history be whitewashed in real time. We’re tired of being told our cultures are only beautiful when someone else is wearing them. We’re tired of seeing our grandmothers’ and mothers’ wedding outfits rebranded as “boho-chic.” We’re tired of staying quiet.
So what can we do?
We write. We document. We name what’s being stolen. We remind the world that a dupatta is more than a scarf, more than a piece of fabric — it’s language, lineage, legacy. We call out brands that erase us and question the publications that stay silent.
They call it minimalist.
We call it ours.
And we’re not letting it go.
Riadh Magazine 
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