XYZT, 107–112


Nomadic Fabric (Post-Dashtanistan)


The women began bringing the plastic bags over to me. Slowly, they opened them, being careful not to damage the plastic. My underwear was now wet, I was sure it was blood. I stood still as they lifted fabric out, one bolt at a time, some in small folded groups. Nomadic fabric, they said.

Predominantly sequin-encrusted, some fabrics were old and hand-stitched, while others were brand new with the sequins configured in intricate patterns by machines. It did not seem to matter to them whether it was old or new; each time they pulled out a fabric, they ahhed just the same…