Cotton, Laila Sumpton

COTTON

COTTON

INTRODUCTION Laila Sumpton

Cotton is a part of our life from birth to death as Sarojini Naidu’s poem ‘The Indian Weavers’ tells us, and it’s colonial history changed the world and unites four continents. When investigating cotton, as with so many of these traded items, we balance beauty and craft-personship with brutality and exploitation. The same is true today- the fabric industry continues to abuse workers rights, impose harsh and at times toxic working conditions, and turn fertile farmlands into near deserts.

But let’s go back to the master weavers of Mughal Courts who were creating muslin fabrics that according to Sufi poet Ab’ul Hasan Yamīn ud-Dīn Khusrow (1253–1325) were ‘so transparent and light that it looks as if one is in no dress at all but has only smeared the body with pure water.’ When Europeans first saw cotton fabrics printed with patterns they thought that there was magic at play, and the chintz craze would see British wool and linen merchants outlaw ‘the tawdry, bespotted’ cottons made by ‘Heathens and Pagans.’ But, fashion won, and the chintz black market thrived until British manufacturers found a way to mass manufacture at home- decimating the once mighty Indian fabric sector. Colonialism is not just about trade and resource extraction, it is about taking a culture and making it your own.

Historian Gene Dattle described cotton as the oil of the 19th century stating that ‘English textile mills accounted for 40 percent of Britain’s exports. One-fifth of Britain’s twenty-two million people were directly or indirectly involved with cotton textiles.” It is important to remember that before colonisation India’s share of the world's Gross Domestic Product was 40%, and when they gained Independence it was a mere 4%.

All that wealth, and all of those secrets of weaving cotton fabrics went back to the British Isles and fuelled the industrial revolution. When we look at our universities, hospitals, museums, schools and galleries today a huge number will have been founded by the profits of the East India Company and organisations which traded enslaved Africans like the South Sea Company. Colonisation and the enslavement of Africans has left a legacy we cannot ignore which is stitched into the very clothes we wear today. There is another important part of this story, rather than import cotton from India and to drive down costs further Britain imported cotton grown by enslaved Africans in the American South. So next time you see a Regency or Victorian dance party on screen, know that those gowns and handkerchiefs are woven through not just the ‘Satanic Mills’ but slavery. At school this link was never made clear to me, but now we can support students to see how interwoven these strands of history are so they can tell the story anew.

Jamdani weavers

Laila Sumpton

If I sing to you of Jamdani of ‘‘running water’ and ‘evening dew’* of muslin so fine it is breath on skin caressing each curve in light.

When Jamdani purred their fingers they tasted hunger for sunlit waters for gowns that made their bearers float for meadow mists that clung and knew that ten East India Men simply would not do.

All else is coarse when it sings on limbs so it fell to that Honourable crew of purveyors to sequester thirty six thousand Bengali weavers (for their use alone).

For the soirees demanded more and the Winter Season at Bath had debutants waiting to launch whose dowries would jacket soldiers red and build the fleets needed for Jamdani waltzes and quadrilles at the London Summer Balls

and if you have sugar in your tea and gold on your fingers and muslin on your skin you my dear can go.

*Traditional Urdu names for muslin: Abrawan (Running Water), Shabnam (Evening Dew) Because, ‘When spread on the ground they say it can barely be distinguished from dew on the grass’

Poems by Year 12 London Academy of Excellence, Tottenham

Within a tuft of cotton

Sumi Nam Kita Rakhtam

is a soft puff of clouds homegrown on sunlit lands. is a curling thread to be woven on looms sung in sync. is the captured day's light easily spread into "morning dew." is just under half the world's wealth, held by one's past from Before.

are the spools dyed different hues - colourfully bright. is the greed of passersby who have decided its worth is for them. are words tittered in fear and silenced by a new guest company. are voices choked from natural song - instead "God save the queen" forced upon their lips. is the crimson dye of sunburnt skin enslaved by soft sheep. is a crowd of clouds shaped into lambs, herded into other pastures.

is a history of tradition lost on deaf ears of foreign singers. are beautiful songs and poetry remoulded into golden English. are the giggles of non-native nobles dancing with a trend - laboured by its fabric. are the spools of dulled colour - fashionably boring.

is half the earth's wealth reduced to a fraction, held by one's future from After. are the trails of unwelcome guests who've left only destruction. is a history left unknown to those who only wear its produce. are brown hands weaving until their tips fold together, interlocked. are fingertips dyed a wedding red, married to marred magic.

is blood.

Woven in me

Leyla Marquez Hilmi

Sweat-saturated fingers entwined My rough hands pleading for moisture While fingertips lay exhausted from their complex chore The birdsong of my family pattern racks my brain It leaves no other space The space for something more They take from my family, my nation, my future They take because terra nullius But once they take what is so rightfully there’s What is left for me?

Cinquain

Leyla Marquez Hilmi

Cotton As light as air Complexity and skill, Our skill exploited not for us For them.

Ingrained

Holly Aldina Bokolo Wa Mbengi

Ingrained in cotton An untold story, An unsung song, No secrets within it The red coats took it and now it’s GONE.

Becoming a staple, The muslin wrap, Treasured by nobles For the status it brought.

Jamdani

Massacre upon massacre, Blood and Blood, Divide et impera, They profited and plunged.

Jamdani

Exploiting existing conflicts, Exploiting existing wealth, They severed a nation. And there it fell.

Yet. Still, ingrained, in cotton

A luxurious past, The wealth of an era Weaved within the fibres it has.

The weavers delivering their song, Their rapid movements The labour and time Their superhuman ability to weave the sun’s light.

Captors of the morning dew The mughals bore the muslin new, A cultural sentiment They wore with pride The stories of a precious time.

Coloniser gloom and doom, Their hands wield the travesty they knew. The wealthy empire Exploited them for dust They were not a commodity,

They were not a product there for us

The truth within the stitches

Shameeka

Jamdani weavers sing their story, Their breathtaking muslin brushes against their skin, Muslin soaks up every drop of sunlight, The cotton is airy and soft; keeping you warm Every stitch filled with manipulation The agonised screams drowned out by the ships horns Every drop of their sweat filled with hopes of freedom Their truth is hidden behind ball gowns and lies.

Poems from Parliament Hill Students, Year 9

Cotton The East India campaign, The looting tax and pain.

Muslin so pure and fine what a blessing from heaven just don’t look behind the white, hurt your eyes.

Woven in cotton I feel

The satisfaction of draping a gorgeous sari The cooling sweat as a reward of toil and exertion The happiness from compliments I’ve received The aches of picking and collecting all day The warmth of my newest shawl weigh down on my shoulders The fulfilment of a gold coin placed on my palm after a day’s work The guilt of leaving it abandoned for the new season.

The texture of cotton

It’s stolen creator slaving away To the hot Indian hands watched by the merchant The fine waters washing against the rough bamboo The dark mill spinning, churning, churring away Shining through the window no mention of the past The soft white hand lets the fabric touch her Not a mention of the warm brown hands The true texture of cotton