"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 12
A year later, the "Threads Without Borders" council gathered in a sunlit courtyard in Marrakech, where mosaic tiles shimmered like scattered jewels. Su Yao sat at the center of a circular table, surrounded by familiar faces: Nala, her beadwork now featured in museums; Giovanni, who'd expanded the Brera school to include a program for disabled weavers; Maria, whose granddaughter was running the Shanghai factory with a team of 150 artisans. New members had joined too—a textile designer from Oaxaca specializing in natural dyeing, a Scottish knitwear maker reviving ancient Fair Isle techniques, a Bangladeshi garment worker who'd helped rewrite labor laws in her factory.
Elena tapped her gavel—a repurposed loom shuttle—and the chatter died down. "The numbers are in," she said, sliding a report across the table. "Our Umoja collection is now in 37 countries. 62% of profits go back to artisan communities. And—" she paused, smiling, "—Pierre Dubois's latest line? It's using recycled polyester. He called it 'a modern interpretation of classic values.'"
The table erupted in laughter. Su Yao thought of the last time she'd seen Pierre—at a sustainability conference in London, where he'd tried to corner her after her keynote. "You've made sustainability trendy," he'd said, his tone grudging. "Don't get too comfortable. Trends pass."
She'd smiled and replied, "This isn't a trend. It's a reckoning."
Today, the council had a new challenge: a request from the UN to create uniforms for peacekeepers using their fabric. "Durable, breathable, recognizable," the brief read. "And they need to tell a story—of unity, not division."
Nala leaned forward, her bracelet of interlocking circles catching the light. "My son is a peacekeeper in the Congo," she said quietly. "He says their uniforms make them feel like strangers. Let's change that." She pulled out a sketch—traditional Maasai shield patterns woven into the fabric, with stripes in the colors of the UN flag. "Protection and pride. That's what they need."
The Scottish knitwear maker, Fiona, nodded. "I can add Fair Isle motifs—symbols of community, of coming together. My grandmother used to say a good pattern can stop a fight."
Su Yao flipped through fabric samples: a new blend of seaweed fiber and Moroccan cotton, developed by their Oaxacan designer; a thread infused with desert herbs that repelled insects, courtesy of a Berber artisan they'd partnered with. "It needs to work in the desert, in the mountains, in the jungle," she said. "Let's test it in every climate. No shortcuts."
That evening, Su Yao wandered through Marrakech's souk, where vendors called out in French and Arabic, their stalls overflowing with spices and textiles. She stopped at a booth selling handwoven rugs, and the merchant's eyes lit up when he recognized her. "You're the woman who makes fabric that tells stories!" he said, pulling out a rug stitched with tiny seaweed motifs. "My daughter wove this after seeing your Umoja collection. She wants to study in your Shanghai factory."
Su Yao's heart swelled. She pulled out her phone, showing him photos of the factory's dormitories—bright, airy rooms with views of the Huangpu River. "Tell her to apply," she said. "We'll pay her tuition."
Later, she joined the council for dinner on a rooftop terrace, where lanterns cast golden light over a feast of tagine and couscous. Fiona taught them a Scottish toast, their voices mixing with Nala's Maasai songs. Giovanni, now 78, regaled them with tales of his first trip to Marrakech in 1968, when he'd smuggled silk thread in his suitcase to avoid customs.
"We've come a long way," Elena said, raising her glass. "But the best part? We're just getting started."
Su Yao thought of the UN peacekeeper uniforms, of the little girl in the souk, of all the untold stories waiting to be woven into fabric. The system was gone, but its lesson remained: transformation wasn't about technology or luck. It was about showing up—for each other, for the planet, for the belief that a single thread, when woven with others, could hold up the world.
As the moon rose over the Atlas Mountains, she made a silent promise: to keep showing up. To keep weaving. To keep proving that fashion, at its best, was more than cloth and thread—it was a language, spoken in every corner of the globe, that said: We are here. We are together. We are unbroken.