When Zahran Mamdani celebrated his victory in the New York City mayoral election this week, the cameras naturally turned to him, the young socialist city councilman who has built a reputation as a fierce voice for justice and equality. However, in the midst of the celebration, something quieter but equally powerful has caught the world’s attention: his partner Rama Dawaji, standing beside him in a beautiful and defiant outfit.
Al-Dawaji wore a black laser-embroidered blouse designed by Palestinian designer Zaid Hijazi, which she paired with a velvet lace skirt from Ola Johnson. The choice was deliberate. Tatraz, the centuries-old Palestinian embroidery tradition, is not just decoration. It is an archive of resistance, a coded language of the homeland and memory woven into the fabric. When choosing this shirt, Douage was not just dressing for D-Day. She wore a story of loss, resilience, and belonging.
At a time when global politics is being torn apart by wars of identity and geography, and when Palestine has become shorthand for erasure and resistance, Al-Dawaji’s clothes remind the world that expression does not end with words or sounds. It continues in the fabric, in the threads, in the silhouette. What we wear can reveal as much about what we believe as what we say.
This was not a performative activity or a celebrity gesture. It was more intimate, a woman of Arab heritage standing next to a South Asian immigrant politician, both members of the diaspora, both negotiating identity and power in a city that thrives on renewal. Together they embody a kind of modern solidarity that transcends hashtags, one that is lived, worn and quietly affirmed.
The photo of Al-Dawaji and Al-Mamdani went viral for a reason. It wasn’t just the style that caught attention; It was symbolic. In a political landscape often saturated with noise, their moment was visually poetic. The black ensemble, laser-etched and hand-embroidered, symbolized cultural pride and collective grief. It also means something else: refusing to be invisible.
In the age of algorithmic attention, where meaning is flattened into memes, Dowaji’s choice reminded us that aesthetics can still be subversive. Her outfit didn’t require applause. He demanded awareness. She asked viewers to look again, to notice what lies beneath the surface: the artisans behind couture, the history behind the stitches, and the politics behind the style.
The embroidered pattern on her shirt is a language of survival that has been passed down to generations of Palestinian women. Each form tells the story of destroyed villages, displaced families, and preserved hope through art. By wearing it, Al-Dawaji reinforced that story in a space that rarely holds it, the era of American political triumph.
Two political actions
The context of her partner’s political rise is also worth noting. Mamdani, born to Ugandan-Indian parents, represents a new generation of progressive politicians who are not afraid to challenge systems of privilege, from housing inequality to climate justice. Dwaji’s choice of clothing reflects the same courage, but expressed differently. While Mamdani’s campaign demanded structural change, Bas Dawaji demanded emotional recognition. Both were political actions. One is in politics and the other is in attendance.
What makes this moment so compelling is how organically it links the personal and the political. There was no press release, no designer statement, and no coordinated activity. Just a young woman dressed in brown, in solidarity with a people whose identity remains constantly contested. In doing so, she gave us one of the most extreme fashion moments of the year.
There is also a lesson here about how we think about “representation.” For too long, the language of diversity in fashion has been limited to inclusion such as visuals, more faces, more colours, and more campaigns. What the Dawaji troupe presented was a more grounded idea: representation as inheritance. Acting does not mean showing up; It carries something forward, a craft, a culture, a cause.
Maybe that’s why her outlook struck a chord. It wasn’t about prestige or price; It was about the goal. In a moment of celebration, I found a way to make the vision meaningful. Her clothes became a bridge between continents, between histories, and between conflicts. He reminded us that fashion, at its most extreme, not only expresses identity, but preserves it.
In a world where politics often seems abstract, Dawaji’s choice brought it to the body, to the texture, to the fabric, to the touch. He reminded us that solidarity can be worn, that resistance can be soft, and that sometimes the loudest statement is the one stitched in silence.
After Mamdani’s victory, it was not just speeches or slogans; And the photo was too. The black ensemble, the tautness, the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what you’re saying without saying a word.
Because in the end, fashion, like politics, is about being seen. Al-Dawaji made sure that, by celebrating the victory, the world also saw what still needed to be remembered.
The writer is Associate Professor at IILM University, Gurugram
