Why I Couldn’t Stay Silent

A Founding Reflection from IsleBlaque

'Summer'

It began in the summer of 2024 — the year I finished college — walking through Birmingham city centre and witnessing something that unsettled me more than I expected. A non-Black person wearing a durag, moving as if they were stepping into a performance of Black identity. To some, it would look harmless. To me, it felt symbolic.

The durag is not random fabric. In Black American history, it traces back to head coverings worn by enslaved Africans to protect their hair from dirt and harsh labour conditions. By the 1930s–1960s, it evolved into a tool for maintaining waves and textured hairstyles. Over time, it became part of cultural expression — something tied to resistance, pride, and survival.

When you understand that context, you understand

why it is not “just a style.”

As a Black British woman, I already navigate a unique space in the diaspora — living in the same region of the world that separated my ancestors from their homeland. Watching elements of Black culture become trends felt like watching something sacred become disposable. And what made it heavier was the silence around it. Speak up, and you’re labelled divisive. Stay quiet, and you swallow it.

What disturbed me most was the contradiction. The same people who socially embody Black aesthetics are often part of systems that economically exclude Black people — in business, property, and employment. There is something unsettling about mocking accents while imitating slang. About policing our hair while profiting from our styles. About benefiting from what we are penalised for.

At the time, I was participating in a programme with The King's Trust to launch my own product. Entrepreneurship was becoming real for me. And as I stepped into that space, I began noticing something else: many brands targeting Black consumers in fashion, beauty, and food were not owned by Black founders.

I had seen it growing up. But seeing it as a builder rather than a consumer changed everything.

The praise these brands received — for ideas rooted in cultures they did not belong to — revealed a deeper imbalance. It forced me into uncomfortable reflection. I felt resentment, and I questioned myself for feeling it. But beneath that emotion was a pattern: cultural extraction paired with economic exclusion.

'An Office'

The workplace amplified it. Another durag — this time worn by a manager. In an environment where Black applicants had reportedly been turned away, where microaggressions passed quietly, the symbolism was louder. People say, “Why make such a big deal about a durag?” But that question itself highlights privilege. It is easy to detach when history does not sit on your shoulders.

Over time, I noticed mimicry everywhere — in gyms, in business spaces, online. It began to feel like identity gentrification: culture without accountability, aesthetics without lived experience.

I tried softer routes. I attempted a podcast. I left explanations in comment sections. I reasoned. None of it shifted the structure.

That is when I realised my frustration was not about a single object. It was about systems. About watching culture circulate while community stagnates. About watching trends rise while generational wealth remains uneven. About watching people perform what others survive.

Silence would have been easier. But clarity does not disappear when ignored.

So instead of shouting into the void, I decided to build.

IsleBlaque was not born from hatred. It was born from conviction. From recognising that if culture can be commodified, then community must be fortified. If we are excluded economically, we must construct ecosystems. If our stories are diluted, we must archive them ourselves.

This is not about revenge.

It is about restoration.

Not about isolation.

About intentional foundation.

Not about superiority.

About sovereignty.

I could not stay silent — not because I wanted conflict, but because I wanted structure.

And structure is stronger than outrage.