AYA MOHAMED: ART AS RESISTANCE IN FASHION'S FUTURE

Aya Mohamed, born in Egypt and raised in Milan, is one of the most lucid and critical voices in the panorama of today's cultural production. I try to get to know her through her shots and her works; I try to immerse myself in her world, even before meeting her.

It's a hot summer afternoon, while I'm waiting for Aya - on a video call. I feel debilitated by the suffocating day I've spent, and I can't wait for it to end. Suddenly, Aya's smile wakes me up. I feel like I've known her voice for a long time - as delicate as it is powerful. It's like talking to a friend who tells me about her day and wants to know mine. I can see her eyes shining when she talks about her projects and the events she organizes. She talks to me about cinema, music, fashion; she talks to me about art as a bridge between many cultures, but she also wants to talk to me about her idea of ​​art and creativity, freeing it from any preconceptions.

She thinks that art is a bridge, that's true; she also believes that the very concept of a bridge comes from a clear and profound separation between two realities that cannot touch, at opposite ends of the spectrum.

When we find ourselves talking about her past, her roots and her identity, her gaze changes. "There is this perpetual nostalgia, this sense of emotional diaspora. Every time I have to choose where to position myself, I feel the call of the other world that I left behind."

She takes me into her world, among many notebooks, decipherable only by her heart; she introduces me to a little Aya. I can see her while she is busy collecting fashion magazine clippings and designing outfit ideas.

Aya is a woman who has turned her creativity into a silent rebellion. She tells me that she wants to bring humanity back into the eyes of the beholder. She pauses for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts, then resumes with an open criticism of today's panorama, dazzled and blinded, distant and distracted.

"I want to free myself from the labels, the bubbles within which, punctually, we end up locking ourselves when we take a position."

"I am faithful to who I am. In the end, I always return to my identity: it is my compass."

Hi Aya! Tell us about yourself! Explain who you are, as if we had nevermet you before, not even through social networks.

It’s always a little difficult to answer this question—I think like many creatives, I don’t exist in just one form or job title. Creativity takes shape in different mediums for me, and part of my work is about exploring exactly where that limit is… or whether it exists at all. That said, I’m a freelance Creative Producer and Cultural Curator, born in Egypt and raised in Milan, Italy. My work lives at the intersection of fashion, art, and social advocacy, and I focus deeply on themes of identity, representation, and inclusive storytelling. I develop multidisciplinary projects from editorial direction to immersive events and cultural programs always with a strong sense of intention, care, and research at the core.

More than anything, I’m passionate about crafting spaces physical and digital that make people feel seen. Whether it’s through fashion, art, music, cinema, or community gatherings, I try to create emotionally resonant moments that shift how we view ourselves and each other.

When did you feel the need to use your art as a means for yourmission? Tell us about your mission and how it is combined with the small gestures of your everyday life.

Honestly, it didn’t start with art it started with frustration. In 2017, I launched a blog called “milanpyramid” because I was tired of feeling misrepresented and stereotyped by the Western society I grew up in. I felt this urgent need to reclaim my own story, to speak in my own voice not just about social and political issues, but also about the things I’ve always loved since I was a child: fashion, beauty, culture. That blog became a space where I could hold all those layers at once. It wasn’t just about aesthetics it was about creating a container where identity, resistance, creativity, and softness could coexist. Over time, that instinct evolved into a wider mission: to use creativity as a tool to question systems, shift narratives, and build spaces.

What are the main social causes that you have supported and that you want to support through your work?

The social causes that guide my work have always been rooted in identity, justice, and visibility specifically: anti-racism, anti-Islamophobia, feminist movements, and representation for SWANA communities. These aren’t abstract values for me they’re deeply personal. As someone who grew up in Milan with Egyptian roots, I know what it feels like to be both hyper-visible and invisible at the same time. That’s what drives me to create spaces cultural, artistic, and digital where nuance and representation can exist beyond stereotypes. I’ve supported anti-Islamophobia efforts through several long-term projects, such as my Ramadan Iftar series at Fidenza Village, which ran for two years.

These gatherings weren’t just events they were a way of reclaiming space, blending traditional storytelling with contemporary design, and offering visibility to Muslim creatives and culture in the heart of Italy. During the lockdown, I also launched a Ramadan newsletter to bring comfort and

connection during a time of global isolation. My feminist work has included curating two key events as part of the DEI board at Soho House: Her Way Forward and Salotto d’Artista, both of which

centred on representation, activism, and women’s leadership in the creative industries. And representation for SWANA communities is a core pillar of everything I do. From co-founding Darna, a cinema initiative reclaiming Arab and SWANA narratives, to curating a SWANA art exhibition at BASE Milano, to producing If I Must Live a fashion performance for Milan Fashion Week in collaboration

with Salvatore Vignola and Camera della Moda dedicated to Palestinian resilience my aim is to tell our stories on our own terms, across disciplines and borders. These causes are not campaigns to me they are the foundation of how and why I create.

You are very active on issues such as Islamophobia, racism andfeminism. How do you manage to reconcile your social commitment with your career in fashion?

It’s not easy and I think it’s important to say that openly. There’s a real tension between working in an industry that’s historically exclusive and being committed to justice, representation, and care. That tension doesn’t go away; I’ve just learned how to navigate it with more clarity over the past few years.

I’ve become much more intentional about the brands and people I work with. I pay attention to how teams are formed, who’s behind the decisions, who gets centred in a campaign, and how brands act not just when it’s trendy to care, but when it’s uncomfortable. It’s not just about aesthetics anymore—it’s about alignment, integrity, and accountability. Fashion has always been political. It has always been a tool for expression, critique, and resistance. And for people like me, for marginalized communities, our mere existence in these spaces is already politicized even though fashion has always taken inspiration from us. Just showing up, just being seen and heard, becomes a statement. That’s why I try to hold space for nuance. I believe it’s possible to move through fashion critically, not passively.

What does it mean to you to be a community catalyst for artists andnon-artists from SWANA backgrounds?

To be honest, right now… nothing feels okay. Our communities are not okay. The world is witnessing devastation across so many places: Palestine, Congo, Sudan, Pakistan. Migrants are dying at borders, families are being torn apart, and injustice has become background noise. In moments like this we all have a responsibility. A catalyst, by definition, is something that provokes change. And that’s what I

hope to be for my community. Someone who holds space, who connects, who creates the conditions for others to speak, feel, and be seen. In a world that keeps breaking our hearts, community becomes the only thing that can carry us. We wake up every day, hold each other up, build support systems, share resources, and try to protect joy and dignity in whatever way we can. When I curated my art exhibition in Milan with an Italian photographer and an Egyptian artist, I wasn’t just thinking about the art I was thinking about the space. Who would feel welcome? Who would feel curious, moved, reflected? Seeing a crowd made up of fashion PRs, high school students, immigrants, creatives, and people from completely different backgrounds all standing in the same room, feeling the same emotions. It's about creating bridges.

Your feminist voice is clear in your work. How important do you thinkit is, especially today, to give a voice to women and their stories? Tell us about your vision of feminism, and how this has influenced your mission today.

For a long time, I wasn’t seen as a feminist at least not in the mainstream sense. As a veiled Muslim woman, people often viewed my choice to cover as inherently contradictory to feminist values. But that’s a limited and colonial perspective. Feminism isn’t a Western invention it has always existed in the daily resistance and leadership of women around the world. Some of the earliest feminist movements were born in Egypt. I think of Algerian women who fought for liberation during colonization, of Libyan women during the Arab Spring, of Palestinian women resisting every single

day, and of the Italian Partisan women who fought during WWII. My own feminist practice has taken shape not just through words, but through the spaces I’ve created. I started on the blog and then using my voice on my social media to speak up about these issues and now I do it through my projects. As part of the DEI board at Soho House, I curated two events that I’m deeply proud of. The first, Her Way Forward, was a morning of panel talks at Villa Clea during Women’s History Month. We brought together activists, designers, and entrepreneurs from diverse backgrounds to discuss what progress, leadership, and visibility really mean for women in creative industries. The second, Salotto d’Artista, took place at Casa Fornasetti on International Women’s Day. It was an intimate evening of panels, poetry, art, and reflective writing. What made it powerful was not just the content—but the energy in the room. You could feel women sharing knowledge, making space for each other, and reclaiming softness and strength in the same breath. Feminism, to me, is not a singular story. It’s a collective archive, always in motion.

What role do you think your art can have in these missions—inbreaking down barriers and silence, which has always been an accomplice to inequalities?

I’ve led lectures in universities and schools on Islamophobia, identity, and representation and while I know education matters, I’ve learned that it’s often not the front-facing lesson that stays with people. What opens hearts is intimacy. Gathering around a dinner table for Ramadan, watching a film where a director exposes a quiet, personal truth those are the moments that dismantle silence. Art has the power to make people feel before they even understand. And once they feel, they start to listen. Art has always been a form of resistance. Just yesterday, I was at a powerful exhibition in Turin at Gallerie d’Italia by Carrie Mae Weems, and it reminded me again that art isn’t decoration it’s disruption. Her work starts the difficult conversations. It reaches the people who might never attend a panel or read a theory but who can’t look away from an image. It’s about reaching people where language fails.

You have worked with numerous brands – such as Prada, Samsung,Gucci. How do you think the brands you have worked with embody your principles and respect the reasons for your mission?

Fashion has been a part of my life since I was eight years old. Even then, I understood that fashion is communication. It's how we introduce ourselves before we speak. Even people who claim not to care about fashion are still saying something with what they wear. When people look at me, they see layers of identity. My veil, the way I mix silhouettes, the balance between modesty and a more “Western” fashion language it’s all intentional. It’s a reflection of who I am, and where I come from. Working with brands like Prada, Gucci, Valentino has been both a dream and a privilege. These are houses I deeply admire, and each collaboration has brought something meaningful into my life. I’ve had the chance to meet designers whose work shaped my imagination and whose creativity has stayed with me for years.

That said, in recent years I’ve become more selective. I’ve chosen to align myself with brands that not only respect my vision, but also reflect my values socially, politically, and culturally. It’s no longer just about visibility it’s about integrity. About who’s really listening, who’s building diverse teams, and

who’s willing to use their platform for something deeper than serving looks.

You curated “You Must Live”, the performance by Salvatore Vignolaat Milan Fashion Week. How did this project come about?

The title “You Must Live” comes from a poem by Refaat Alareer—a Palestinian writer, professor, and poet who was killed during the attacks on Gaza. When Salvatore Vignola came to me with the idea for the show, it was during a moment when the world—and especially the fashion industry—was silent about what was happening in Palestine. Aside from a few voices like GmbH, no major designers were speaking out. We both felt the urgency to do something that broke through that silence.

From there, we decided not to create just a fashion show, but a living tribute. A performance that honoured Palestinian resilience, beauty, and survival. My goal was to bring together as many Palestinian and SWANA artists as possible—not to feature them, but to highlight them, to build a platform that

made their presence and their talent undeniable. We collaborated with the Palestinian brand Trashy Clothing, who brought raw, powerful energy to the show. Every detail—from the casting to the

choreography to the music—was designed to carry a message. This was about telling a story that had been silenced, using fashion as a tool for visibility and resistance. My role was to shape the entire narrative: I curated the artistic program, directed the emotional and political tone, and made sure every part of the experience reflected the strength of the culture it honoured. In that moment, “You Must Live” wasn’t just a title—it was a reminder, a call, a form of resistance.

Aya, at the Venice Film Festival we saw you with an extraordinarylook designed by Salvatore Vignola for Cartier. What did that moment mean to you?

That was my third time walking the Venice Film Festival red carpet with Cartier but this time, I wanted it to feel truly personal. Salvatore Vignola and I had become close after working together on You Must Live, and I trusted him completely. We designed a white dress that felt soft, graceful, and strong all at once. It was everything I wanted to embody that night. It was also the first time I felt fully at ease on the red carpet. The first year, I was so nervous it was my first time with Cartier wearing a stunning Valentino pink gown and these impossibly high heels, it was incredible! This time, it felt different. I had done it before I was more confident and at ease. I knew who I was and what I stood for. I wasn’t just dressing up I was showing up, as myself. When I got back to the hotel that first time I thought of my grandmother. I imagined her seeing me walk that carpet, wearing my identity with pride. It wasn’t just about the fashion it was about presence. About being visible on my own terms, representing my culture, my values, and everything that made me who I am.

How do you imagine the future of fashion and activism in Italy?

Right now, I’m trying to stay hopeful, but I must be honest: I’m also deeply concerned. I see fashion, especially in Italy, moving toward a more conservative, right-wing direction. It feels like we’re witnessing a rollback not just of progress, but of imagination. And that widening gap between fashion

and activism worries me. We forget too easily whose hands are making these clothes. Whose cultures,

bodies, and ideas are being referenced often without recognition. We see the aesthetics of resistance being stripped of their meaning and rebranded as trends. And while I would love to imagine a future where fashion and activism grow closer, where there’s more representation, more honesty, more care I also know that representation without responsibility is just tokenism. A recent study showed a clear decline in body diversity on runways and Milan was one of the worst. That’s not just about fashion; it’s about whose stories are being erased. Whose bodies are being told they’re not worthy of being

seen. Still, I do believe change is possible because I’ve seen the power of independent designers, emerging creatives, and cultural workers who are building their own systems outside of the mainstream. They’re pushing for care, sustainability, storytelling, and community. And that gives me hope. But fashion must meet them halfway. It can’t just take.

What projects would you like to carry out in the future? Among themany inspirations and ideas, tell us about a project you would like to continue over time.

One project I hope to keep nurturing over time is Darna, a film initiative I co-founded to promote cinema from the SWANA (Southwest Asia and North Africa) region across Italy and Europe. It was born out of the need to reclaim narrative space and spotlight the voices and visions of our diaspora through

film. We’ve hosted screenings, festivals, and summer cinema clubs in cities like Milan, Rome, London, and Amsterdam—creating space for stories that are too often overlooked. At the same time, when I think of the future, I also want to widen my creative production work beyond the realms of identity and advocacy. I want to experience the full range of storytelling and creative expression. I want to work on projects that don’t necessarily relate to these topics. Because it feels like racialized groups are only allowed to be represented through pain, struggle, and resistance and our identity can only do that.