When it comes to first lady fashion, the mind immediately goes to bouclé suits, pillbox hats and the occasional questionable slogan parka from Zara. But, in the words of Bob Dylan, the times they are a-changin’. The internet—and the world at large—can feel pretty bleak right now, so waking up on Thursday morning to “hopecore” edits of Zohran Mamdani set to a remix of Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” was a welcome serotonin boost.
Aside from being New York City’s first Muslim mayor, Mamdani has been gaining legions of fans online thanks to his very cool wife, Rama Duwaji. Following Mamdani’s win, the Syrian-American artist and new first lady of New York City joined her husband on stage modeling micro bangs and an embroidered top by London-based Palestinian artist Zeid Hijazi.
Zeid, who studied at Central Saint Martins and won the Fashion Trust Arabia Prize in 2022, has, by his own admission, been “ghosting his DMs” since he found out the news via Instagram (a 2025 success story if ever there was one). Taking a break from the flood of stock requests and congratulatory messages, the designer spoke to British Vogue about dressing the new first lady and the complexities of being a Palestinian designer.
How did it feel seeing Rama Duwaji wear your design?
You never know if it’s actually going to happen, so I didn’t let myself get too hyped. Then I woke up the next morning in Jordan, opened Instagram, and it was crazy. I never expected it to be this big. When a celebrity wears your piece, that’s one thing, but when it’s someone political, it takes on a whole new meaning. It didn’t feel like it was about me anymore; it felt like it was about my community.
How has your community reacted?
It’s been beautiful. I’ve had people message me who I haven’t spoken to in years—mothers, old friends—just saying they’re proud. That’s the best part. As amazing as the press is, the best type of reaction is the reaction that I get from my community, especially people who have nothing to do with fashion and just want to see you succeed.
Does dressing someone in a political context change how you see your work?
Honestly, no. Journalists always ask, “You’re political—what’s your message?” I don’t aim to be political or an activist—it’s just who I am. It’s my blood. I’m Palestinian, and that’s political whether I like it or not. I don’t need to label it. Just me being in this industry—being Palestinian and succeeding in a white space—is a political act. That’s my middle finger to the system. That’s my way of saying Free Palestine without literally saying it.
How would you describe the aesthetic of your work?
I always say it’s abstract folklore and Arab futurism. I’m drawn to folklore because I’m an old soul, but I’m also drawn to the complete opposite—the future. People always see rubble and tragedy when they think of Palestine. But also, there are poets, there are musicians, there are journalists, there are artists who create beautiful things. These people came from the past, before it was occupied. I want to bring that to the forefront and show that there’s another side.
I want to show you that before the dead bodies, there was something very beautiful. I want to expose people to the fact that we are cool. A lot of people think that we Palestinians are difficult and we’re angry, and that’s true. We are difficult and we’re angry. But we’re also cool. We’re difficult, angry and cool. So this is me embracing that.
You’ve said before, you don’t feel the need to put Palestine in every garment
For a long time, I felt guilty if a piece didn’t have something recognizably Palestinian. I felt huge shame when the garment didn’t consist of Palestinian elements, but now, when I’m designing, I want to create very cool eveningwear and sexy dresses. Now I realize that by being in fashion, presenting those dresses, I am also saying Free Palestine. I don’t need to print a flag on every dress.
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Who are some Palestinian artists who inspire you?
Mona Hatoum is one of my favorites—she’s incredible. There’s also an artist called Salma Halabi—she’s such a fab Palestinian woman, she has that “I don’t give a fuck” energy. And my biggest inspiration ever is my old art teacher, Haya Abdul Hameed. She discovered me, really. She pushed me to tell my parents that I wanted to go to Central Saint Martins. She got me into everything.
And finally, who would be your dream person to dress?
Someone who’s dead, actually—an Egyptian musician called Oum Kalthoum. She was my grandmother’s favorite.
