When the Business and Human Rights Centre reached out to 25 of America’s largest fashion houses—including Gap Inc., H&M Group, Nike, and Zara’s parent company, Inditex—to discuss the labor fallout from President Trump’s tariff rollercoaster, the response was deafening silence. Not one brand replied. Not even a polite decline. For an organization accustomed to at least a brush-off, this was unprecedented.
A year after so-called “Liberation Day” imposed levies of 10 to 50 percent on partner nations, the damage is clear but the data is murky. Brands have fled to cheaper production hubs or demanded price cuts so steep that suppliers can only comply by slashing wages—a familiar squeeze in an industry where the corset of profit margins has always been cinched tight. During the pandemic, at least, campaigners could track canceled orders. Now, as Mayisha Begum of BHRC notes, “We don’t know how bad things are.”
The legal whiplash hasn’t helped. After the Supreme Court struck down Trump’s emergency powers in February, the administration slapped a 10 percent “stopgap” tariff under Section 122 of the 1974 Trade Act—a relic from an era when bell-bottoms and nylon slips reigned. With those levies expiring in July, the White House has launched sweeping Section 301 investigations, yet brands remain frozen, refusing long-term contracts. The result: reduced orders, paused production, and no guarantees.
In Lesotho, the consequences are brutal. Quantum Apparel, a Walmart supplier, has shed half its workforce. Hippo Knitting, which produces for Fabletics—the athleisure brand that owes its stretchy fabrics to mid-20th-century lingerie innovations in elastic—laid off 1,400 workers. Precious Garments, a Reebok manufacturer, let go all 4,000 employees. Every morning, workers crowd factory gates, hoping for a shift. Without intervention, 40,000 jobs could vanish in a country where textiles are the largest private employer, especially for women. Some will turn to laundry, street vending, or sex work to survive.
Meanwhile, Bangladesh’s garment workers—78 percent of whom cannot feed their families—face mounting costs from oil price surges and gas shortages. The Strait of Hormuz’s closure has pushed oil past $115 a barrel, raising transport and food prices. Nearly 400 factories have shuttered in three years, and the Bangladesh Garment Manufacturers and Exporters Association warns of more to come. As the International Apparel Federation notes, the industry’s fossil-fuel dependence is no longer just an environmental issue—it’s a strategic vulnerability.
H&M Group, the only brand to speak on the record, cited “pragmatic constraints” and the need to balance fashion, quality, and price. But as Anithra Varia of BHRC points out, human rights remain an afterthought. “We’ve seen this with every crisis,” she says. “Brands have more control than they admit.” In a system where power imbalances are as stark as the difference between a silk chemise and a burlap sack, responsible sourcing must include workers’ wages and severance—not just bottom lines.
The Lingerie Museum knows that fashion’s history is woven with exploitation, from the corset factories of the 19th century to today’s tariff-shocked supply chains. The question remains: Who pays for the crisis? So far, the answer is always the same.
Originally reported by WWD