Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 14
The first shipment of refugee camp school uniforms hit a snag at the Turkish-Syrian border. Su Yao stood in the dust of a logistics depot, staring at a stack of crates sealed with red tape—customs had flagged the fabric, confused by its hybrid composition. "Seaweed-metal blend? Herbal dye? This isn't on our material lists," the border agent said, tapping his clipboard. Behind him, a line of trucks idled, their drivers leaning against doors and smoking, while aid workers checked their watches.
Nala, who'd traveled with Su Yao, leaned in, her bracelet clinking. "Let me try," she said. She pulled a swatch from her bag, unfolding it to reveal the patch designs: a Syrian olive branch, a Kenyan acacia, a Chinese lotus—each child's name could be stitched over their family's national symbol. "These aren't just uniforms. They're identity. A little girl from Aleppo can wear her olive branch, and remember where she's from while learning where she's going."
The agent's jaw tightened. He had a daughter, Su Yao noticed—her photo was taped to his phone case. "My sister's a teacher in Gaziantep," he said finally, gesturing to the crates. "She says the kids there stop fighting when they feel like they belong. Let them through."
By sunset, the uniforms were unloaded at a camp outside Kilis. Su Yao followed a teacher into a makeshift classroom, where 30 children sat on plastic chairs, their notebooks balanced on knees. A girl with a braid down her back—Lina, 11, from Homs—ran her finger over the olive branch patch on her new uniform. "It's soft," she said, her Arabic translated by the teacher. "Like my grandmother's tablecloth."
Nearby, a boy from Somalia traced the acacia tree on his sleeve. "My father was a farmer," he said. "He taught me to climb these. Now I can carry one with me."
Elena joined them the next day, bringing a team of tailors from the Brera school. They'd set up a temporary workshop in a converted tent, where children lined up to have their names stitched onto patches. "We brought extra fabric," Elena said, showing Su Yao a pile of scraps. "The kids want to make dolls, backpacks—little things that feel like theirs."
That night, they sat on cots under the stars, listening to the sound of children laughing as they played with their new uniforms. A aid worker passed around cups of mint tea, her face lit by a lantern. "You'd think clothes are trivial," she said, "but last week, a girl refused to come to school because her dress was torn. Today, she's first in line. Pride matters."
Su Yao thought of the border agent's daughter, of Lina's grandmother's tablecloth, of all the small, unspoken ways fabric holds memory. The next morning, she walked through the camp, watching children chase each other in their uniforms, the patches fluttering like flags. A group of girls had tied their scraps into friendship bracelets; a boy wore his name patch on his sleeve, next to a drawing of a rocket ship he'd added with a marker.
"Look," Nala said, pointing to a cluster of women sitting under a tree, their hands busy with needles. They'd borrowed the leftover fabric to make headscarves, stitching the same olive branches and acacias into patterns. "They're joining the story."
Back in Marrakech, the council reviewed photos from the camp. Fiona wiped her eyes. "My grandfather was a refugee after the war," she said. "He always said the only thing that kept him going was his school uniform—proof someone thought he was worth investing in."
Giovanni nodded, tapping a photo of Lina writing in her notebook. "We're not just making clothes. We're making futures. And futures need threads to hold them together."
The next project appeared in their inboxes that afternoon: a request from a Indigenous community in Australia, wanting to collaborate on a fabric using native plants. Su Yao smiled, pulling out her sketchbook. The pages were filling up again—with eucalyptus dyes, Aboriginal dot patterns, the endless possibilities of threads without borders.
As she picked up a pencil, she thought of the first time she'd held a sketchbook, in that seventh-floor walk-up in Shanghai. She'd drawn dresses then, but they were empty—no stories, no hands, no heart. Now, every line she drew was crowded with people: Nala's beadwork, Giovanni's calloused fingers, Lina's olive branch, a little girl in a refugee camp, finally feeling like she belonged.
The story wasn't over. It was just getting more colorful.