India, explained.
Sari textiles are dried in the open air in Rajasthan, India (Getty Images)
For politicians who reach for South Asia’s traditional garb, cultural literacy matters far more than a perfect drape.
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Soft power and the politics of sari diplomacySoft power and the politics of sari diplomacy
Wearing the national dress of other states when you’re a politician or diplomat can be a difficult tightrope walk. Lean too far in and you risk looking over-enthusiastic or, worse, derisive. Lean too far out and you can come across as rigid or aloof. Get the nuance wrong and you risk a sartorial faux pas.
Sari diplomacy has been on my mind recently, with the opening of The Offbeat Sari in Melbourne, a touring exhibition by the Design Museum, London. The sari, the unstitched garment worn throughout South Asia, is a popular choice for diplomats, politicians and spouses when engaging with South Asian communities in Australia or abroad. It speaks to the emotional intelligence at the heart of diplomacy. It is soft power in draped form.
Wearing a sari can be a wise move: Indian women love their textiles and love seeing Western women wearing a sari and embracing Indian culture. Even if they get it wrong or look more Sridevi than Sonia Gandhi, the gesture is still appreciated.
The sari is, without doubt, a culturally loaded garment, and central to this quandary is: can and should Western women wear saris?
But it can be a minefield. Wearing national dress can signal sycophancy or acceding to another power or state. Sometimes, the threads take centre stage and dominate headlines on an official trip, as was the unfortunate experience of the Trudeaus. There is a lot of space for gaffes, and while the host state might appear gracious, working out where the invisible lines lie is tough for the uninitiated.
The sari is, without doubt, a culturally loaded garment, and central to this quandary is: can and should Western women wear saris? The answer is: it depends. It could be viewed anywhere on a spectrum, from a gesture of deep respect to an offensive display of cultural appropriation.
And it is this spectrum where things get interesting. There is, I’ve come to realise, a divide in views between South Asians in the motherland and those in the diaspora. The former generally embrace Western women in saris: they love the garment and want to share that love around. Last year, I had chai with my friend Himanshu, who is well known in Indian fashion and design circles as The Saree Man (one of his pieces is in The Offbeat Sari). He was emphatic on the topic, insisting that as the sari is “dying out”, the more wearers the better, wherever they are from.
When I spoke with the exhibition’s curator, Priya Khanchandani – of Indian Sindhi heritage and based in the United Kingdom – the picture became more complex. Growing up in Luton, where racial tensions were very high in the 1980s and 1990s, her perspective is that if a Western woman is going to wear a sari, she should be sensitive to the way it is being represented and think about the context. Do they have South Asian friends? Do they engage with South Asian culture? Are they wearing it because they are trying to show their affinity rather than having an actual affinity?
To wear a sari is to take part in a 2,000-plus-year history (Shreesha bhat/Unsplash)
These are the same kinds of values in question as those discussed during Black Lives Matter conversations. If you grew up in a context where your mother was verbally abused in the street for wearing her national dress, it would feel jarring when, for example, you saw Theresa May, the former UK prime minister with a hardline position on immigration, gracefully draped in a handloom sari while visiting a South Indian temple.
Colonialism has also cast a long shadow over South Asian textiles. The production of cloths such as muslin and chintz was suppressed under British colonial rule: the Calico Acts of the 1700s restricted the import, sale and wearing of Indian cotton to protect British textiles, crippling the industry. Other textiles were repressed or subject to East India Company monopolies. At the same time, the value of craftsmanship was undermined. Dhaka muslin, a fabric as thin as tissue, was once in global demand, but died out after the East India Company intervened to try to increase production and lower prices.
Former NSW opposition leader and now director of the Australia-India CEO Forum Jodi McKay is one Australian public figure who knows her way around a sari. She owns more than 100 and is frequently photographed at community events in a perfect drape and a style and weave appropriate to the event. McKay implicitly understands that saris speak a visual language of their own – the fabric, the embroidery or weave, the type of border, the pattern and other details can be associated with specific regions, and are instantly recognisable. South Asian women will often, with one glance, know the story of your sari, whether it is handloom or machine made, hand-embroidered, silk or polyester and probably how much you paid for it.
Like all acts of diplomacy, wearing a sari can be hard work, but the payoff can be immensely rewarding.
Are there rules governing how and where Western women can wear a sari? As a non-wearer, I am not qualified to make that call. But as a member of the diaspora, I concur with Khanchandani’s take: that to wear a sari is to take part in a 2,000-plus-year history, and that means respecting the legacy by becoming sari-literate. It also means acknowledging that South Asian women who wear saris in public do so knowing they could become targets for the culturally backwards elements of Australian society.
Being informed avoids faux pas such as wearing the wrong regional weave, or underdressing or overdressing at official events. A good starting point is The Offbeat Sari’s accompanying book, which contains a wealth of information about the historical and contemporary socio-cultural contexts of the garment. Another is Saris of India: Tradition and Beyond, considered the bible of regional weaves. Talking to South Asian friends is also key, as is sourcing a good tailor for custom-made sari blouses.
Like all acts of diplomacy, wearing a sari can be hard work, but the payoff can be immensely rewarding. When Western women wear saris, they can expect boundless positive comments from South Asians, as well as a bit of help getting the pleats right. Mistakes or ignorance will be met with grace and latitude – although perhaps more so in South Asia than in the West.
About the author
Aarti Betigeri
Aarti Betigeri is a multi-platform journalist and former foreign correspondent with a keen interest in India.
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