"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 13
The first prototype of the UN peacekeeper uniform arrived in a cardboard box labeled "Fragile—Handle with Care," but when Su Yao lifted the lid in their Marrakech workshop, she nearly dropped it. The fabric, a blend of Moroccan cotton and seaweed fiber, had shrunk unevenly in testing, warping Nala's shield patterns into misshapen blobs. The insect-repellent herbs had stained the blue UN stripes green, and Fiona's Fair Isle motifs looked smudged, as if someone had dragged a wet finger across them.
Giovanni grunted, prodding the uniform with a knitting needle. "I told you desert heat would play tricks," he said, though his eyes softened when he saw Nala's face fall. "But mistakes are just teachers in overalls. Let's fix it."
They worked for three weeks straight, turning the workshop into a laboratory. The Berber artisan, Amina, suggested boiling the herbs in olive oil first to mellow their pigment—"Like steeping tea," she said, demonstrating over a clay stove. Fiona redesigned her motifs using thicker threads, inspired by the way Berber rugs held patterns through wear. Nala adjusted her shield shapes to account for the fabric's stretch, turning the warped blobs into intentional abstract designs that still read as protection.
When the second prototype emerged, it was a revelation. The fabric repelled both mosquitoes and desert sand, the colors stayed true through 50 washes, and the patterns—Maasai shields, Fair Isle knots, Berber geometric shapes—flowed into each other like a visual poem. A UN representative flew in to test it, spending a day hiking in the Atlas Mountains in 100-degree heat. "I've never worn a uniform that breathes," he said, peeling off the jacket to reveal no sweat stains. "Or tells me a story."
News of the design spread quickly. A documentary crew from National Geographic arrived, filming as Amina showed Su Yao how to harvest desert herbs at dawn, their shadows long against the sand. "My grandmother taught me this," Amina said, her hands brushing the plants gently. "She said the earth gives us what we need—if we ask nicely."
That night, the crew hosted a screening of rough footage in the workshop. Su Yao watched as Nala explained the meaning of her shield patterns to a group of peacekeepers, her voice steady with pride. She saw Giovanni teaching a blind weaver from Bangladesh to feel the loom's tension, their hands overlapping on the wooden frame. And she saw herself, laughing with Elena as they measured fabric swatches, the "Umoja" logo stitched into their sleeves.
The system's absence felt like a friend who'd moved away—missed, but not needed. Su Yao had learned to trust her own instincts, to listen to the artisans, to let the fabric speak for itself.
A month later, the first batch of uniforms shipped to the Congo. Nala's son sent photos: peacekeepers in blue and green, their jackets catching the sunlight, children from a nearby village touching the patterns with 好奇 (curiosity). "They ask about the stories," he wrote. "I tell them it means we're all on the same side."
Back in Marrakech, the council gathered to plan their next project: a line of school uniforms for refugee camps, using leftover fabric from the peacekeeper project. "Durable, affordable, and something kids want to wear," Elena said, passing around sketches from Maria's granddaughter—bright colors, hidden pockets for pencils, patches that could be customized with each child's name.
Su Yao thought of the little girl in Shanghai, now 10 and enrolled in the "Threads Without Borders" school in Brera. She'd sent a drawing last week: a group of children from different countries, all wearing the same uniform but with unique patches, holding hands around a globe. "This is us," the note said.
As the sun set over the workshop, Su Yao picked up a scrap of the peacekeeper fabric, running her fingers over the patterns. It was imperfect—slightly uneven, the colors not quite matching—but that's what made it beautiful. Like the world itself, it was a work in progress, held together by people willing to listen, to adapt, to weave their differences into something stronger.
Elena tossed her a spool of thread. "Ready to start sewing?"
Su Yao smiled, threading her needle. "Always."