Clothing, Identity, and Belonging: What Is Lost in Clothing Poverty?

Clothing is often framed as a basic material need that is functional, seasonal, and widely accessible. However, this framing is incomplete without understanding that clothing not only covers the body but communicates one’s identity. It is frequently reduced to a purely practical set of items that everyone has, yet research consistently positions clothing as something far more fundamental: a cultural and social symbol. It shapes how individuals express who they are, how they are perceived, and how they move through society. In this sense, clothing signals belonging while also drawing visible boundaries between social inclusion and exclusion. 

This raises a more fundamental question: what does it mean to belong, and what happens when clothing becomes a barrier to that belonging? 

Across academic literature, clothing is understood as a visible marker of culture, religion, and ethnicity which communicates belonging and signals alignment with particular social groups, while distinguishing between individuals considered insiders and outsiders. Dress helps define a shared sense of “we,” creating clear boundaries between in-group and out-group members.¹ Clothing therefore cannot be seen as neutral; it is one of the most immediate ways group identity is made visible, shaping both self-identification and social recognition. 

This understanding also exposes a wider gap in how poverty itself is perceived. While experts position social exclusion and the inability to participate fully in society as central to poverty, public perceptions often reduce it to material lack alone, overlooking how limitations on participation, identity expression, and belonging operate as forms of deprivation in their own right.² This is where the problem begins. 

This becomes especially significant in diasporic contexts where identity is not fixed but continually negotiated. For South Asian communities in the UK, clothing reflects the intersection of multiple identities - British and cultural, modern and traditional, religious and generational.

Clothing, in this sense, functions as a cultural anchor, maintaining connection even as identities shift across generations. Items such as saris (a long piece of fabric worn draped over a blouse and petticoat) or salwar kameez (a long tunic worn with loose trousers and a scarf) are not interchangeable with Western alternatives; they carry specific cultural, social, and symbolic meanings that cannot easily be substituted. For some, particularly those navigating mixed or diasporic identities, these garments offer a “sense of life and endurance” rooted in heritage, continuity, and connection that may feel absent from Western clothing.³

Garments such as the salwar kameez illustrate this complexity. Once associated with specific regions or social groups, it has evolved into a widely worn and adaptable form of dress across religions, classes, and contexts. From the 1980s onwards, its practicality led many women to move away from saris in favour of the salwar kameez when entering education and the workforce in India, a shift that later informed its continued use in diasporic contexts, where it offered both mobility and a way to maintain a visible connection to South Asian identity. 

Research on South Asian diaspora communities further highlights how such sartorial practices are not only a means of identity expression, but also play a critical role in community-making, even as they blur regional and ethno-religious boundaries. In the UK, its transformation from being stereotyped as “low-status immigrant dress” to appearing in mainstream fashion spaces reflects both its adaptability and its changing cultural meaning.⁴ Today, it is worn in multiple forms, often styled with contemporary elements such as jeans or leggings, reflecting a form of everyday sartorial hybridity, where cultural clothing evolves alongside increasingly layered and diverse lived experiences, particularly across second and third generation British South Asians. In this context, the salwar kameez stands as a clear example of how ethnic clothing continues to evolve across generations and settings within Western society. 

Clothing, therefore, is not static. It can signal affiliation and pride, but also act as a form of resistance. For many, wearing cultural or religious dress is not simply aesthetic but an assertion of identity in the face of pressure to assimilate or the quieter processes of cultural erasure. 

Understanding clothing in these terms has direct implications for how clothing poverty is defined. According to Graham (2024), the right to adequate clothing recognises that clothing enables individuals to express “their identity, their culture, their religion and their beliefs,” and that inadequate access can restrict social participation and lead to exclusion and discrimination.⁵ Yet this right has long suffered from inattention, leaving a clear gap between recognition and lived reality. 

For many, the issue is not simply access to clothing, but access to the right clothing; clothing that aligns with identity, culture, and community. Without it, exclusion may occur in ways that are less visible to the broader public, but no less significant. 

If clothing is understood purely in functional terms, provision may meet basic physical needs while overlooking cultural ones. However, if clothing is recognised as a vehicle for identity and belonging, then adequacy must also include access to clothing that reflects cultural realities. Without this, forms of exclusion persist, even where basic provision exists. 

This shifts clothing poverty from an issue of quantity to one of appropriateness, choice, and dignity. It is not a marginal distinction; it shapes how the issue is defined, measured, and addressed. It also raises a necessary question: are current systems recognising diverse cultural needs, or do they continue to implicitly prioritise a narrow definition of what is considered “essential”? 

If clothing signals belonging, then lacking appropriate clothing can mean being unable to fully belong. Furthermore, if clothing is understood as a vehicle for identity, belonging, and participation, then lack of access is not a minor practical inconvenience but a structural barrier. It raises questions about whose identities are supported, whose are marginalised, and whose are rendered invisible, highlighting a broader issue not only of access to clothing, but of access to choice, and whose identities are able to exist visibly and comfortably within society. These questions extend beyond any single community, pointing to wider issues of stigma, cultural expression, and access that require deeper examination. 

In this context, addressing clothing poverty requires more than increasing supply; it requires recognising that need is not uniform. In a society as diverse as the UK, provision must reflect the cultural and social realities of the people it serves. Without this, even well-intentioned responses risk reproducing exclusion rather than alleviating it. Ultimately, this requires moving beyond narrow definitions of need, and towards a fuller understanding of clothing as essential to dignity, identity, and social inclusion. 

References:

1. Rajina, F. (2023), British Muslim men and clothes: the role of stigma and the political (re)configurations around sartorial choices, Fashion, Culture & Society.

2. Joseph Rowntree Foundation (2023), Talking about poverty: how experts and the public understand UK poverty.

3. Patel, R. (2023), South Asian fashion fits into Cambridge, Varsity.

4. Dasgupta, R.K. and Alimen, N. (2024), Consuming and retailing fashion: South Asian diaspora negotiating clothing practices, identities and community making in Glasgow, Social Identities.

5. Graham, L.D. (2024), Reasserting the Right to Adequate Clothing in International Human Rights Law, Human Rights Law Review.