As global fashion looks for meaning beyond trends, cultural heritage has moved from the margins to the centre of design conversations. Embroidery, silhouettes, symbols, and craft techniques rooted in specific histories are now visible on international runways and commercial collections. This shift reflects a real demand for identity and depth. It also raises uncomfortable questions about power, ownership, and responsibility.
In BRICS and partner countries, where cultural traditions are not relics but living systems tied to communities, labour, and memory, these questions carry particular weight. The issue is no longer whether designers may draw inspiration from heritage, but how that inspiration is handled, who benefits from it, and who gets to decide where the line is drawn.
Homage versus exploitation
The difference between homage and exploitation often becomes clear when we look at process rather than aesthetics. In India, for example, luxury brands have frequently referenced Banarasi brocade or Kutch embroidery while removing the work from its social context. When a motif is lifted without engagement with the artisans who sustain it, the result may look respectful on the surface but functions extractively in practice.
By contrast, some Indian labels working with weavers in Varanasi or artisans in Odisha have built long-term collaborations where design decisions, timelines, and pricing are negotiated rather than imposed. The garments may travel globally, but the cultural source remains visible and materially supported.
Brazil offers another contrast. Indigenous patterns from the Amazon region have appeared in global collections, sometimes stripped of their spiritual or communal meaning. In response, Indigenous-led cooperatives and designers have begun asserting authorship, insisting on consent and attribution when their visual language is used. The distinction here lies not in whether tradition is adapted, but in who controls the adaptation.
Are there universal rules for ethical borrowing?
Attempts to define universal criteria often fall short because cultural systems do not operate uniformly. What works in South Africa may not translate directly to Indonesia or Egypt. Still, some shared principles emerge across BRICS contexts.
Consent matters. Attribution matters. Economic participation matters. When none of these are present, ethical claims become difficult to defend. In China, for instance, debates around the commercial use of minority cultural dress have highlighted the absence of legal frameworks that recognise community ownership, even as designers profit from regional aesthetics.
Russia’s engagement with folk motifs presents a different challenge. State-supported fashion initiatives sometimes frame traditional symbols as national heritage rather than community heritage, raising questions about who speaks for culture and who is excluded from that narrative.
High-profile cases and shifting perceptions
Public scrutiny has intensified in recent years. Global backlash against brands accused of misusing African patterns or South Asian religious symbols has forced companies to issue apologies, withdraw collections, or rethink sourcing strategies. These moments matter not because they resolve the problem, but because they expose how historical context shapes perception.
A motif taken from a community with a history of colonisation, displacement, or economic marginalisation will never be read as neutral. In South Africa, the use of Zulu beadwork by international labels carries a different resonance than similar borrowing within Europe, precisely because of apartheid-era histories of extraction and representation.
Who owns cultural heritage?
The question of ownership remains unresolved across most BRICS countries. Is heritage owned by the state, the community, individual artisans, or no one at all? In many cases, the lack of legal clarity benefits corporations rather than cultural custodians.
Indonesia has taken steps to register certain traditional textiles and techniques as protected cultural expressions, while India has experimented with Geographical Indication tags for crafts such as Pochampally ikat or Kanchipuram silk. These mechanisms offer partial protection, but they do not automatically guarantee fair compensation or creative control.
Profit-sharing and partnership models
Fair distribution of profits cannot rely on one-time payments or symbolic gestures. Sustainable models tend to involve long-term partnerships, shared branding, and investment in skill transmission. Some Brazilian and Indian brands now credit artisan collectives as collaborators rather than suppliers, allowing communities to build their own reputations alongside the label.
In Egypt, initiatives connecting contemporary designers with traditional textile workshops have shown that global relevance does not require erasing local identity. When artisans participate in design decisions and market positioning, tradition evolves without being hollowed out.
Certification, education, and the future
Calls for certification of cultural heritage are growing, but opinions remain divided. Certification may protect against misuse, yet it risks freezing culture into rigid categories. Living traditions change, adapt, and absorb influences. The challenge lies in protecting communities without turning heritage into a museum exhibit.
Educational institutions have a quiet but decisive role here. Fashion schools across BRICS countries increasingly include ethics, cultural history, and field engagement in their curricula. When designers are trained to see heritage as a relationship rather than a resource, ethical practice becomes part of their professional instinct rather than an afterthought.
As BRICS positions itself as a cultural and economic force on the global stage, the way its fashion industry engages with heritage will signal more than aesthetic ambition. It will reveal how seriously the bloc takes questions of equity, authorship, and respect in a deeply interconnected world.
