Every year, as the desert sun rises over Coachella Valley, music and fashion lovers descend onto the scene dressed in their best outfits. Fringe. Feathers. Jewels. Henna. Bindis. Kaftans. Headwraps. And without fail, the line between self-expression and cultural appropriation begins to blur like desert heat over pavement.
Let us start with a trend that resurfaced heavily this year: Desi clothing. Influencers were seen floating through the crowd in lehengas and saree-like ensembles, rebranded as “Scandinavian fairy looks.” South Asian textiles and patterns were posted on Pinterest boards under names that completely erased their origins. It was not appreciation — it was whitewashing. These are not just pretty clothes. They are garments with deep cultural meaning; to wear them without understanding or acknowledging that history is not edgy or artsy. It is disrespectful.
Then there is the rise of pop-up tattoo stands offering temporary “body art,” a Coachella staple. Except that body art is usually henna — mehndi — an ancient form of skin decoration from South Asia, North Africa and the Middle East, used during weddings, births and holy days. It is spiritual. It is traditional. But under festival lights, it is marketed like an exotic accessory for the weekend.
Let us talk about edges. What Black women have shaped, styled and slicked down with care for decades are now labeled "sticky bangs". These are not new trends. They are practices rooted in resistance and beauty culture. Calling them "sticky bangs" strips them of their cultural lineage. It is another form of rebranding that silences where the style came from and who it was created by.
This year also brought a new wave of people tying keffiyehs and hijabs around their heads as statement pieces, paired with bikini tops and jeans. The keffiyeh, a Palestinian symbol of resistance and identity, is not an aesthetic to be plucked from its history. The hijab is not a mere scarf — it is a sacred expression of faith, choice, and personal strength. Yet on the Coachella grounds, these items were worn like accessories at a thrift sale, stripped of their context, meaning and dignity.
The performative nature of it all is deeply disturbing. Influencers get thousands of likes. Brands get campaigns. People profit. Meanwhile, the people whose cultures are being copied are often gatekept out of those very spaces. The core issue is not just wearing something from another culture. It is doing so without understanding or acknowledging what it means. It is calling something by a new name to fit an aesthetic, while ignoring the people and history that created it. Cultural appropriation often thrives in these subtle rewritings, where fashion becomes a sanitized version of something deeply meaningful.
What makes it all worse is the purposeful blurring of the line between cultural appropriation and appreciation. Appreciation means you learn. You honor. You uplift the voices that created and sustain a tradition. Appropriation is when you take, rename and profit — without credit, without permission. And many festival goers know exactly which side of the line they’re on. They just choose to ignore it. Cultural appropriation is easy to brush off when you're not the one being affected by it. But for the communities whose cultures are being borrowed without credit or care, it is exhausting and painful.To be clear: cross-cultural exchange can be beautiful. But it has to come with acknowledgment, humility and respect. Do not wear a culture if you are not willing to carry its stories. Do not praise a look on a white girl that you mock on a brown one. Do not rename what already has a name. Festival outfits might sparkle in the sun, but if they are built on stolen threads, they are nothing but a costume. And costumes, by definition, come off.