National Post (National Edition)
Where does Danish fashion find inspiration? A Peruvian prison.
HOW A DANISH FASHION BRAND IS WORKING WITH PERUVIAN PRISONERS TO HELP WOMEN BREAK AWAY FROM A LIFE OF CRIME
In the bleak confines of Peru’s notoriously overcrowded prisons, an unlikely partnership is forming. Carcel, an upstart Danish fashion brand, is designing a line of sustainable clothing made by female prisoners in Cusco, a city in the Peruvian Andes that was once the capital of the Inca Empire. The handmade knitwear collection is produced using soft, baby alpaca wool, with the name of the inmate who manufactured the garment subtly marked inside.
Founded in April, Carcel reached its online Kickstarter fundraising goal in just one day. The demand for the lush, wool products has been so high that hundreds of pieces have already been pre-ordered, and a wait-list for the garments — which range between $200 to $350 — has started.
While the minimalist designs are quintessentially Scandinavian, the bold colours of the knits are inspired by the landscapes of Peru. However, the most impressive aspect of this endeavour isn’t the stylish sweaters, but rather the assistance it provides women in breaking away from a life of poverty-related crime.
Peru is an emerging cocaine hub, with nearly two-thirds of the growing number of female prisoners incarcerated on drug-related charges. The country is the second largest producer of the narcotic in the world, after Colombia, and drug cartels exploit the nation’s poor — who are often uneducated, indigenous, and living in rural villages.
“The cartels recruit the young and the beautiful or the pregnant girls, because they are easier to get through customs,” Carcel’s founder, Veronica D’Souza says. “Some of these girls know what they are doing, some of them are taking advice and following. They don’t really know they are transporting drugs. They make bad choices out of need.”
Carcel gives inmates a living wage so they can buy necessities like shampoo and sanitary pads — products not freely available in prison. It also offers them a chance to send money to their children and save up for a fresh start once they get out. Apart from financial support, D’Souza suggests that being part of a creative company has a profound effect on the women: it fosters a sense of self-esteem many have lost. By making garments that are highly desired in another part of the world, the prisoners are a part of something positive that turns lost time into productivity.
The idea to merge Peruvian prisoners with Danish design grew out of D’Souza’s time working in Africa. She visited a local prison in Nairobi a few years ago, where she discovered women were working eight hours a day in a factory-like space, knitting and making beautiful products. All they needed was a place to sell them.
“I was both — as a woman and on a human level — moved,” D’Souza says of her experience. “I thought also, from a business perspective, that this is very ineffective; this is a factory in full-production where time is a wasted resource.”
D’Souza, who is also the cofounder of Ruby Cup, a company that specializes in making menstrual products available in the developing world, began mapping out countries with high levels of poverty-based incarceration. Peru stood out not only for its large prison population, but also for its abundance of alpaca wool — a coveted textile for designers.
Partnering with the National Penitentiary Institute of Peru, Carcel bought new machinery and retrofitted the prison’s workspace into a bustling factory. Since most of the inmates in Cusco are familiar working with alpaca, it’s just a matter of teaching the women how to construct the clothing.
“We want to make designs that are not going to go out of style when the season changes,” says D’Souza. “This means the women can really learn to do these designs well, without in two months having to do something different.”
Carcel is not the first brand that saw a business model within Peru’s prison system. For Frenchborn entrepreneur Thomas Jacob, the potential to manufacture highquality and low-cost clothing was an inspiring opportunity.
In 2012, Jacob launched Project Pietà, a streetwear company born out of Lima’s notorious prisons. Today, Pietà employs over 30 inmates in two male and one female prison outside the capital: San Jorge in Lima, Santa Monica in Chorrillos and the incredibly overcrowded San Pedro in Lurigancho.
With several completed collections, graphic prints and deep, sombre shades of black and grey have become defining characteristics of the Pietà brand. From bomber jackets to high-top sneakers, Pietà looks more like a Yeezus collection than prison-made fashion. In its current line, cotton-fleece hoodies with “NO MIRACLES HERE” emblazoned in bold, block lettering sell for US$110.
“All the inspiration for the designs come from the jails, and people imprisoned there,” Jacob says. “You can learn from everyone.”
Between drug-traffickers and members of former Peruvian military death squad Grupo Colina, the prisoners who work for Pietà come from diverse backgrounds. But Jacob’s view on working with inmates is much like D’Souza’s: they’re humble people who shouldn’t be judged.
“Some of them are my best friends from the time we spent together,” Jacob says.
While fashion may not solve Peru’s high crime rates or serious drug problems, it is offering inmates a chance to be a part of something bigger while they’re behind bars. And in an environment infested with disease, violence and corruption, opportunities to work outside of those confines are valued.
“The feeling I get when I walk into a prison is that these people, they could have been me; I could have been them,” D’Souza says. “It all depends on where you grow up.” For Peruvians born into misfortune, clothing doesn’t offer a complete a sense of escape, but it can help prisoners looking ahead — even if it’s only one stitch at a time.