Our Woven World — A Poem by Mahoor Haya Shah
As the commercialization of Kashmiri symbols of cultural identity (by people from other cultures) becomes more common, Mahoor Haya Shah presents this poem as part of a larger debate about cultural appropriation found at the heart of Kashmir’s academic and intellectual scene. Mahoor’s verses combine
Our Woven World
They cut the cloth but not the cold,
A borrowed shape, a story sold.
The wind still whispers through the seams,
But none recall its woven dreams.
They named it ragged, outlawed its thread,
Called it crude, a past misread.
They stripped our streets of wool and warmth,
Yet now they drape in what they scorned.
The Pheran, worn in hush of snow,
Through war, through grief, through ebb and flow.
A shroud for loss, a shield for pain,
A quiet oath we wore again.
The hands that spun in winter’s ache,
The looms that hummed by Dal’s still lake.
The thread that wrapped both rich and worn,
From Sultan’s court to soldier’s dawn.
They take, they wear, they do not know—
The weight of winter, the hush of snow.
The hands that spun, the hearths that warmed,
The ghosts of fires now deformed.
Once they saw it as a mark of chains,
Too foreign, too crude for their refined plains.
They banned it, shamed it, tried to erase,
A piece of us, a time, a place.
Yet winters came and winters passed,
The Pheran stood, it held steadfast.
A whispered prayer in folds so deep,
A rebel’s warmth, a mother’s keep.
And now they wear it, claim it new,
As if the snow has changed its hue.
No tales of struggle, none of fight,
Just fabric draped in borrowed light.
They take, they claim, they do not know—
The weight of exiles, ice, and woe.
What once was shunned, now vogue decree,
A fashion’s whim, a stolen spree.
Yet we remain, as mountains stand,
With fires lit in cupped, cold hands.
No theft of cloth, nor borrowed name,
Can weave away what still remains.
A name misplaced, a hem undone,
A history blurred beneath the sun.
Yet in the mountains, high and steep,
The Pheran’s breath is ours to keep.
The Pheran breathes, unbowed, unbent,
A map of all the storms we’ve spent.
A banner high, a truth unfurled,
Our warmth, our pride—our woven world.