Rising Seas & Shopping Sprees 

As I was setting off on a dhoni, I watched a maakana fly at the harbor’s edge. He peered below, seemingly to hunt for fish. As the waves lapped against the harbor poles, the water was obscured by a sea of trash. The maakana picked away at discarded water bottles, a lone worn-out slipper, and even a floating shirt I almost mistook for a jellyfish. How did we reach this point? How did the world change so rapidly for us to wake up to an insurmountable mountain of trash polluting our soil, sand, and sea? 

We are generating waste like our ancestors never have at a scale they could never have imagined. Consumer culture and dependency on retail therapy enabled buying in excess only to discard them shortly thereafter. 

The fashion industry promises fulfillment and allure — just follow every micro-trend! No matter how many clothing hauls we do, the void of chronic dissatisfaction lingers. We still crave for more as we wait for the next “it” style. Fashion giants burn unsold stock — generating excess waste in the process — to promote these consumer trends and maintain exclusivity. 

Not long ago, we sewed our own clothes with delicate hands and intricate movements. My great-aunt, a historian, explained how clothing was made in her days. 

“In the 30s, we wore the authentic Dhivehi Libaas. Creating a Dhivehi Libaas was not usually a one-person job. It was a tedious yet beautiful process, but we do not see it anymore. It is a dying practice.” 

Cotton, metallic, and silk threads were used in these braids. These braids were made on a gathaa fai, a wooden base. “Back then, the threads used to weave the kasabu braidswere fused with real silver threads.The fabrics were usually imported from India by sea.”

 “After the Second World War, we had a hard time getting the materials needed for Dhivehi Libaas. The government designated Dhigu Hedhun as the national dress, so people started wearing it. It is not nearly as complex as a Libaas.” While adults wore these detailed garments, children kept it quite simple. “The younger ones did not wear any upper garments. It was normal back then. They had their hair long enough to cover their chest.” 

When my parents were growing up in the 70s, buying ready-made clothes was still an unfamiliar concept. They were rocking bell bottoms and funky shirts made with fabrics locally available to them. Professional tailors and family members alike tailored these clothes. “Most people knew how to sew back then; it was more about who was interested in it and who was not. Many people could operate the manual sewing machine too,” my father explained. For daily wear and special occasions, handmade clothing was the norm — and that made the garments unique. “We were stylish because we made them just how we liked them. Of course, we followed trends from the 70s, but what we wore then was distinctive to our personality and style.”

As a young girl, I remember waking up to the quiet, rhythmic sound of my grandmother working the sewing machine to make me a set of night dresses. She does not even need to measure me; one careful look and she would get to work. Fabric stores were a maze I did not mind getting lost in. My eyes would widen at the sheer abundance of fabrics of every color, pattern, and material you could imagine. 

As imports and international trade developed, I had myriad options with fabrics compared to my parents’ era. I felt pretty in the dainty dresses she’d make after letting me choose from many stitches the machine would allow. As I grew older, store-bought clothes had become the norm — they became what my wardrobe mainly consisted of. Ready-made clothes became too convenient. Our lifestyles adapting to a fast-paced world did not allow us the time to make hand-made clothes. 

Slowly, fast fashion became more widespread in the Maldives. Our remote island geography prevented us from hopping onto the fast fashion bandwagon earlier; the exorbitant shipping costs made it expensive.

Over the past few years, brands like SHEIN and Pretty Little Thing have started shipping directly to the Maldives. While this makes everyday clothing more accessible, affordable, and convenient to the public, we are also seeing western consumerist trends creep in. 

We have prioritized quantity over quality, which has devalued our clothing. This wasteful culture’s impacts are devastating and complex. While paying a few bucks for a pair of jeans may seem small, there is a hefty environmental price we pay for our clothing needs. The fast fashion industry is extremely carbon intensive. The waste it creates is in quantities we cannot manage. Our landfills are so over-burdened, the clothes we discard are washing away into our oceans. Our coastal infrastructure is getting destroyed, and the currents are swallowing up our beaches and trees. There is also sweatshop labor exploitation upon which the fashion industry stands. Still, it is not too late to fight for change. 

We have much to learn from our ancestors’ wisdom. They placed high value on their clothings, for they were created with patience and care. These clothes were made as durable as possible. Flaws in the garments were mended, while worn-out clothes were repurposed. Sewing was considered a life skill. Intentionality was practiced rather than overindulgence. 

We can still see remnants of our traditional practices today. Some people often tailor clothes for special occasions and carefully preserve them for coming generations. While the style and type of clothing most people wear has drastically changed over the years, it is still fairly common to sew everyday clothing. Some of us still pass down our clothes in crisp conditions to our younger siblings. Artisans work to preserve our historical sewing methods by learning from their elders. There is so much potential for us to embrace our cultural traditions once more, as we still have not strayed too far from it.