Viral Tie Exposes Gap Between 'Ethical Fashion' Label and Artisan Reality

When Zohran Mamdani took his oath as New York City's new mayor on January 1st, 2026, cameras flashed and headlines celebrated. But there was something special about that moment. Something that beautifully connected a powerful political office to the humble courtyards of Assam, India.

It was the tie around his neck. Woven from eri silk, it shimmered under the lights, carrying with it a story that few people paused to ask about.

The Designer Gets the Spotlight, But Who Made the Fabric?

Delhi-based designer Kartik Kumra has been celebrated across hundreds of media outlets for creating that eye-catching tie. And yes, the design is beautiful. But here's the question that needs asking: Who actually wove the threads that made this moment possible?

Behind that small piece of cloth lies the patient, painstaking work of Indigenous women from Assam, women whose names you won't find in those headlines. Women who have been perfecting this craft for generations, in a process that honours both life and land.

What Makes Eri Silk Different?

Assam produces 65% of India's eri silk, about 5,420 tonnes each year. But eri isn't just any silk. It's often called "peace silk" or "ahimsa silk" because no silkworm is harmed in its making.

Unlike other silk producers, these weavers wait. They wait for the silkworm to complete its entire life cycle, to transform from egg to caterpillar to moth, and only then do they harvest the cocoon. It's a practice rooted in deep respect for life – one that says we can create beauty without destruction.

This patience, this care, comes with a cost. Because the silk moth emerges naturally, the fibres are shorter and more irregular than factory-produced silk. They can't be reeled off in one smooth, continuous thread. 

Instead, they must be hand-spun, drafted slowly between fingers that have learned this dance from mothers and grandmothers.

The Women Who Weave Peace Into Every Thread

Traditional spinning of eri silk yarn by Assamese artisan women

In Sualkuchi alone, there are 6,872 female weavers, most working from home or in small clusters. For them, it's a legacy passed down through generations. 

Think of a winter morning in an Assamese courtyard. Women gather around spinning wheels worn smooth by decades of use. Their fingers know by touch when the yarn is ready for dyeing, when to soften it with natural sericin, and how to coax that creamy texture that makes eri silk so distinctive.

This knowledge isn't written in manuals. It lives in muscle memory. It lies in the rhythm of hands that have pulled and twisted fibres since childhood, watching their mothers do the same, and their grandmothers before them.

Only 8% of India's silk today is eri, precisely because of this slower, more ethical method. In the language of modern sustainability, this means low-carbon, low-waste, high-dignity fabric. In the language of these Indigenous women, it simply means: "We don't harm what feeds us.

The Problem With "Ethical Fashion

Here's where the story turns uncomfortable. As global demand for "ethical fabrics" and "sustainable fashion" grows, the women who actually create these materials face precarious wages and exploitative middlemen. 

The vocabulary of "conscious fashion" is being used to sell products, but the consciousness rarely extends to fair compensation for the artisans.

The designer gets named. The politician gets photographed. But the women whose hands spun every thread? They remain anonymous.

It's not just about one inauguration or one tie. It's a pattern we see over and over: Indigenous women's work is seen as "craft" instead of art, and "tradition" instead of skilled work that deserves recognition and fair pay.

What Does Real Recognition Look Like?

We can't just talk about the fabric when we talk about ethical fashion. We should ask: 

• Are the weavers getting paid fairly?
• Are they in charge of their work?
• Are their names attached to what they create?
• Can they sustain their families and pass on their knowledge?

The eri silk tie has already become a symbol of South Asian representation, of sustainability, of thoughtful political aesthetics. But if we look closer at the threads, we see that the real authors of that symbol are the women who wove it.

They've been creating a "politics of care" long before power learned to wear it.

Moving Forward

So the next time you see someone wearing "peace silk" or hear about "ethical fashion," remember the courtyard where women wait for moths to live before harvesting their cocoons. 

Remember the spinning wheels, the patient hands, the knowledge that took generations to build.

And ask - are we truly honouring that labour? Are we paying what it's worth? Are we giving credit where it's due?

The women weavers of Assam don't need our pity. They need fair wages, better value chains, and their rightful place as the artists and thinkers they've always been – not at the margins of ethical fashion, but at its very centre.

Because every thread of that beautiful tie tells a story. And it's time we listened to the women who wrote it.

What can you do? Support brands that name their artisans. Ask questions about supply chains. Advocate for fair trade practices. And most importantly, remember: behind every piece of "ethical fashion" are real people whose work deserves both recognition and respect.