_{Luxury: The Fashion Issue}

A tulle-fringed Andrea Wazen stiletto sits in the rubble, its heel bent at an unnatural angle, like a broken limb. A pretty pink armchair stands defiantly in the Azzi & Osta showroom, now incongruously open to the elements. And a colourful sketch by Nicolas Jebran, of the outfits proudly donned by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion for their WAP music video, is submerged under deadly looking shards of glass.

The scenes that emerged from the ateliers and boutiques of Beirut’s world-renowned fashion designers in the wake of the explosion on August 4 poignantly encapsulated the tragedy of Lebanon. A handful of searing images, showing objects of ethereal beauty juxtaposed against a backdrop of widespread destruction, told the story of a flourishing creative scene, of international success achieved against the odds, and of immense potential laid to waste within a matter of moments.

That sense of loss was reflected in the haunted look of master couturier Rabih Kayrouz, who posted a black-and-white picture of himself on Instagram in the days following the blast, announcing that he had suffered a small brain haemorrhage and two blood clots. In typical Lebanese fashion, his caption included a note of defiance, but also hinted at the joie de vivre that we have all come to expect from our Lebanese friends. “Words are not enough. We will not forget. We will judge. We will rebuild ... And we will dance!” he wrote.

Dance they will – but first they must take stock. “We can’t plan, we’re all in survival mode,” Rami Kadi told Luxury in the week after the catastrophe. “The disaster affected me on a personal level as deeply as is possible – emotionally, mentally and financially. My showroom is completely destroyed, our gowns are shattered, our offices are damaged, our houses are affected by broken glass. Gratefully, the team had already left the premises.

The losses are endless, and come in multiple forms. “How do you put into words the level of impact the explosion had? I honestly am not sure how I can do that,” says industry stalwart Georges Chakra. “Our atelier had no physical damage, but we did lose an employee. Tanios Mkhayel Murr. I say his name so we never forget. He had retired a couple years back after working for us for over 20 years. We are completely devastated, not just for Tony but for all of Beirut, for all its people.” 

The three siblings behind the Mukhi Sisters jewellery brand, Maya, Meena and Zeenat Mukhi, sum up the feelings of many Lebanese in the starkest terms possible. “This explosion destroyed a part of Beirut and it killed our plans and our dreams with it. We don’t feel safe anymore. It is easy to fix broken glass, but how do you get the strength to wake up and build your life again?”

Lebanon was already on its knees before the explosion ricocheted outwards from Beirut’s port. Widespread corruption, a devalued currency, Covid-19 lockdowns and growing disillusionment with the government were converging to create an impossible environment for designers to operate in. 

“Lebanon’s socio-economic and financial collapse earlier this year, aggravated by the global pandemic, was having a devastating impact on small and medium enterprises across a large number of sectors, in particular the luxury sector,” explains jewellery designer Gaelle Khouri.

“As a locally produced brand, we were dealing with a shortfall of imported raw materials, which were becoming, on one hand, less accessible due to imposed capital control restrictions, and on the other hand, more expensive due to the heavy devaluation of the Lebanese lira. In a context where Lebanon’s economy is highly import-dependent, many businesses were forced to stop their operations,” Khouri continues.

For some, there is little hope to be had at present. “Right now I have none,” says a deflated Ralph Masri, whose store and home were both close to the epicentre of the explosion and suffered extensive damage.“I’m not thinking about rebuilding yet as I am now rethinking my whole business strategy. You cannot run a business in such an incredibly unstable atmosphere.”

Even if the industry can rebuild – and Masri says that, in the short to medium-term, he is not optimistic – it may never regain its former clout. “It will be a smaller, weaker industry and not many will survive the current crisis,” he says.

Others are more optimistic, and think that Lebanon’s fashion community can rise from the ashes strengthened and improved, although it is impossible to put a timeline on any such recovery. “I feel that if any fashion house had a change to make, now is the perfect time,” says Chakra. “The industry is already going through changes, focusing more on sustainability, slow fashion and other initiatives. We are all starting from zero, and what better way than to rebuild with a new focus and mission.”

A desire for change is burning brightly across the country, particularly among the young – and this is mirrored in the fashion industry. “The hope I have after this tragedy is that we, the young, can finally reclaim our country and build it the way we know it should be,” says designer Roni Helou, whose layered, contradictory, artisanal creations reflect the city that he calls home.

“Due to rampant corruption within governmental institutions, people have only civil society to turn to when looking for change. This is why the team and I, along with Starch Foundation, Bureau des Createurs, Maison Pyramide, Slow Factory and Faux Consultancy, have set up an online fund to support 40 creatives who were affected by the explosion,” he explains.

In the midst of his obvious despair, Rami Kadi points to the resilience of the Lebanese people and their ability to rally in the face of adversity, but also highlights the things that have been lost and will never be regained. “Fall down seven times, get up eight. Beirut was destroyed seven times and rebuilt; we will build it again. The Lebanese are so resilient.

“But the traditional traits of the destroyed buildings, the arcades, the architecture, the heritage will not be back, unfortunately. It will be polished, and it’ll lose its authenticity. But the memories are carved in our hearts forever,” says Kadi.

Gaelle Khouri categorises the explosion as a “crime against humanity”, and also highlights all the history, heritage and collective identity that were indiscriminately destroyed as the blast pummelled its way through the city’s streets.

“No words can describe the horror that shook the city or the aftermath that is being brought upon the Lebanese people,” she says. “The street of Mar Mikhael where I live and work on was transformed to an open space of widespread destruction and dead bodies.

“We are crying over our crumbling heritage architecture and our lost beautiful buildings dating back to the Ottoman Empire. The residential and commercial neighbourhoods of Gemmayzeh and Mar Mikhael that constitute the hub for art and creativity in Lebanon, with their little boutiques and art galleries, are reduced to ashes and shattered glass. 

“The manufacturing area of Bourj Hammoud, where my workshop and other manufacturing workshops are located, has been severely impacted and the production equipment incurred great damages.”

In these dark times, the only consolation to be had is rooted in the sense of unity that prevailed in the aftermath of the explosion. Volunteers took to the streets to organise grassroots clean-up operations; tales of everyday heroism emerged; and communities around the globe rallied to show their support of the country. Lebanon’s design industry was no different.

“I saw a beautiful unity amongst the fashion community,” says Hussein Bazaza, a young Beirut-born designer who has enjoyed meteoric success in recent years. “We as designers were calling each other and each offering help in cleaning and picking up the pieces from each other’s ateliers. I hope this unity will forever prevail amongst Lebanese people, especially in the fashion industry. I also hope we will all rise, rebuild better and stronger.”

This consolidated approach will be key to the resurgence of Beirut’s creative community, says Khouri, but first the focus must fall on addressing the immediate humanitarian crisis sweeping through Lebanon. “The urge to rebuild is primordial, but the most urgent matter that must be addressed today is the humanitarian crisis of the country. The only pressing need for every local community including the creative community is to work collectively to provide food and shelter for the 300,000 Lebanese who have lost their homes and livelihood, and to provide medical support to the thousands of wounded people.

“Once the humanitarian crisis is managed, the creative community should, in my opinion, work collectively and simultaneously to rebuild the crumbled workshops and boutiques that are located in the heart of Beirut – which will be only made possible through external donations and investment – and to channel their traumatising experience and awful pain through their work. 

“That would help them on one hand, dissipate their agony, and on the other hand, convey the image of Lebanon to the global community as a country with a beautiful history and heritage architecture and as a home for skilled artisanship.”

While some Lebanese designers had been playing with the idea of leaving the country for months before the explosion, for the most part, they now remain committed to staying in Beirut to support its recovery. For many Lebanese creatives, the question of whether to leave or stay is a fundamental, soul-deep dilemma: the country is their muse, an inextricable part of their creative drive. And muses cannot be so easily abandoned, even if they are troublesome, and even when obstacles feel insurmountable. 

“Lebanon is everything for us. It’s always a source of our inspiration and we know that whatever we do going forward will be more and more an ode to Lebanon. We like to think that we create dreams and those dreams are made in Lebanon,” George Azzi and Assaad Osta, the design duo behind Azzi & Osta, say.

Nonetheless, practicalities say that many designers from Beirut will need to start setting up international outposts, to create some kind of safety net. 

“Since the beginning of the crisis in Lebanon, we contemplated leaving, yet we said our roots are here. That was the reason we invested all into the new location we moved into. Now we feel strongly that we will rebuild and rise again for sure in Lebanon, but we will need to create bases outside Lebanon as well. We can’t keep seeing our hard work and dreams shattered,” say Azzi and Osta. 

For young, up-and-coming, self-financed designers such as Hussein Bazaza, the future is particularly precarious. While he has so far been entirely auto-financed, and takes great pride in being self-made, he recognises that he will need an outside investor in order to carry on.

“I have already started with fixing my atelier, but the question is how will I rebuild the brand in the long run,” he says. “It’s not a matter of glass and windows being shattered, it’s a matter of being able to survive all the economic uncertainty we are facing. I am a purely auto-financed brand; all I generate I put back into my business, and with all what’s happening, I don’t know how much I can put in anymore.” 

But even in the face of such challenges, Bazaza will not abandon his homeland. “Regarding leaving the country permanently, I don’t think so. Beirut is my home, it’s not a hotel I choose to leave because the service is bad. Beirut is my home and it’s so hard to leave home, especially when you see it suffering this much,” he says.

The streets of the Lebanese capital may be changed forever, and the physical and emotional scars of that fateful day in August may never heal completely, but some things remain constant.

“Beirut will never look the same, and that is something we are all having trouble processing because of the immense impact this controversial city has on us,” says Helou. “But I believe we will witness a new wave of expression and creativity in our collective future. Don’t worry, we’re not going anywhere.”

This is WAAR

For Chadi Chamoun, inviting people to consider the true meaning of refugee is more than a matter of semantics. It’ll make us all more empathetic, he tells Selina Denman

What is a refugee? 

That’s the question that underlies a new initiative by Chadi Chamoun, dean of the College of Design at American University in the Emirates. Making his first official foray into fashion, the architect and academic has created a line of women’s clutch bags called WAAR, or We Are All Refugees.

“According to UNHCR, ‘at least 79.5 million people around the world have been forced to flee their homes. Among them are nearly 26 million refugees, around half of whom are under the age of 18’. Although these numbers are technically factual, the frightening fact is that they are much greater if we look at the broader definition of a ‘refugee’,” says Chamoun.

“We need to remember that anyone who has left their home for political, social, economic or any other crisis-driven situation that devalues the livelihood of a human, is principally a refugee – regardless of whether they or we are willing to admit it or not. This detachment of place and culture contributes to the refugee crisis today,” he adds.

And so the clutch, a carrier device in condensed form, becomes a symbol of making do with the barest of necessities. WAAR’s utilitarian lines, no-nonsense forms and bold typography invite us all to consider what the term refugee actually means. “A great majority of people are in denial of their refugee condition,” suggests Chamoun.

“Many individuals feel that once they reach a certain level of financial or social independence and validation, they shed their refugee skin. The biggest misconception is that you are only a refugee if you are poor, have lived in a makeshift shelter and have been helped by an NGO. 

"This could not be farther from the truth. To put it plainly, an immigrant is someone who leaves their homeland of their own will, whilst a refugee is someone who is forced to flee their homeland and has little or no say in the situation.” 

Chamoun has no qualms about his own refugee status. “My parents and I were forced to leave Lebanon in 1978 and flee to America. It was not a choice and it was not an option. We could either leave or face dire consequences. Our passports were printed, visas issued and we were on a plane to JFK. My parents still like to think of it as immigration, but I can’t digest that. It is one thing that we won’t agree on. 

“At the age of 3, NYC became my home. My parents literally had $50 [Dh183] in their pockets. They had to work such a myriad of jobs to keep us afloat that listing them would be a thesis. Amongst the chaos, my father became a successful interior designer in NYC and my mother a phenomenal real estate broker in Queens,” he says.

Chamoun had been developing WAAR before the pandemic struck, but now sees parallels between the refugee crisis and Covid-19-related lockdowns and restrictions surrounding movement and travel. “As a result of Covid-19, we have all become ‘refugees’ in our own homes, towns, cities,” he says. “We are all displaced and limited in movement and expression. The world has become a ‘refugee’ camp and we are all the occupants.” 

And then, on August 4, disaster struck once again in Lebanon. “In a matter of 20 minutes, over 300,000 people lost their homes and became refugees in their own city.”

Although Chamoun holds a PhD in architectural design from University College London, served for eight years as a faculty member and as chairman at the American University in Dubai before taking on his current role, and has worked on a range of commercial design projects in the Emirates, he realised that, as a creative discipline, fashion could offer a more immediate and wide-reaching way of communicating his message. 

“Fashion is an unbelievably fast medium of expression that connects to a far greater multitude of people in society. Architecture, interiors and products are not as accessible to all strata in society – they are expressive mediums that do not penetrate as quickly and effectively. A similar medium would be music, with similar penetrative qualities – but I can’t sing.”

Still, Chamoun drew on his architectural background when creating the designs for the clutches, which are made in Dubai and currently available to buy via Instagram. They have a distinctly urban feel, inspired by “the grey patina of concrete, the black street grills that allow underground activities such as subways and tunnels to breathe, the patterns of streets and the patterns of pavement”.

And each bag's message is, at its heart, pretty simple, if maybe difficult to digest for some. “We all – and I mean humanity as a whole – need to come to the realisation that the refugee crisis will spare no one. It doesn’t matter if you're rich or poor, if you’re well-cultivated or a brute, displacement will spare no one – but this is not a bad thing. Our prophets were refugees, being forced to flee from town to town, city to city, and nation to nation.

“Once we realise that we are all in this together, and that we are all susceptible to this, we can start to care and support one another more consciously and effectively,” Chamoun concludes.