Fashion

KML is the Saudi Brand That’s Both Ahead of Its Time, Yet Rooted in Its Place

BYKhaoula Ghanem

October 22, 2025

When Ahmad Hassan and his co-founder Razan Hassan received the call that their label, KML, had been shortlisted for the LVMH Prize, they didn’t believe it at first. “We thought we didn’t hear it well,” he laughs. “It was an unforgettable moment. But more than recognition, it was the feeling of being understood and appreciated,” he tells MILLE. Months later, that sense of validation deepened when the duo made history again, this time winning the Institut du Monde Arabe’s inaugural Arab Fashion Award in Paris. For a brand just four years old, it’s a remarkable trajectory.

KML, pronounced “kamel”, might appear at first glance as a minimalist label with its fluid silhouettes, earthy tones, and elegance that feels effortless. But beneath its serene surface lies a deep current of research, philosophy, and cultural provocation. “We wanted something that is of the time—beautiful and sexy—but rooted in our culture,” says Ahmad. “We’ve been buying fashion for forty years, but in the process, we forgot how rich our own visual language is.” That rediscovery of what it means to dress Saudi sits at the heart of KML’s story. A trained architect, Ahmad approaches fashion as an extension of design for the human body. “Architecture teaches you to serve the human being—their physical and spiritual needs,” he says. “Whether it’s a chair, a building, or a piece of clothing, it’s the same question: how does it sit on the body, how does it move, and what does it mean?”

Photographed by Hassan Al Shatti

But his first lessons in design came long before university. “I spent so much time with my grandmother,” he recalls. “She had impeccable taste. Her wardrobe was a universe on its own, with pieces from Paris, London, and Cairo. I think she introduced me to beauty.”

It was also in women’s weddings, not men’s, that Ahmad first discovered the transformative power of clothing. “Men’s weddings were boring—everyone wore the same thing,” he laughs. “But women’s weddings were full of expression and individuality. You could see people experimenting with silhouettes, color, texture. It was like walking into a living archive of taste.” Those early observations, of how women dressed and how fashion could hold meaning without words, stayed with him. “It taught me that clothing isn’t just surface—it’s behavior, memory, and identity all at once.”

This sensitivity to form gives KML’s garments their signature tension between structure and softness, and simplicity and complexity. A long coat can unzip into a cropped jacket, its shawl reconfigured around the waist; a crisp shirt reveals hidden internal straps that cinch the silhouette. In layman’s terms, basics that aren’t basic. He explains, “Almost every piece can be worn relaxed or elevated. You can loosen the straps, open the buttons, and it becomes flowy—an easy, chill outfit. Or you can wrap everything around, make it fitted, flattering.” He pauses, then adds, “Statement pieces are fun, but they’re not timeless. For us, it’s about longevity.”

Photographed by Sara Saad

Though often described as avant-garde, KML’s work is, in fact, profoundly traditional. Just not in the way the word is usually used. “People think tradition means copying the relic,” says Ahmad. “But in our culture, tradition is guided by principle. It’s the abstract principle that leads our progression, not the interpretation. Because we believe that principles are timeless, and the interpretation has to do with time. So when you stick to principle, you have the opportunity to achieve more timeless things,” he adds.

For KML, that means tracing the DNA of Saudi dress, not to replicate it, but to understand its logic. The research is exhaustive: museum visits, interviews, fieldwork across the kingdom. One finding particularly struck Ahmad. “When we started researching, we wanted to know how different we are,” he recalls. “But we discovered that we’re actually quite similar to many other cultures. The one-shoulder garment we wear during pilgrimage exists in Buddhist and Greek traditions too. It tells you that humans all come from the same source.”

Even the bisht, long considered the quintessential Saudi garment, is a product of exchange. “Its fabric comes from Japan, the tassels from Damascus, the embroidery from India,” Ahmad says. “It’s a mix of everything—and that’s the beauty of it. We’ve always borrowed from wherever there is goodness.” In a global moment obsessed with difference, his philosophy feels quietly radical. “We’re not a secular culture,” he says. “We’re part of something greater. Whatever is beautiful is welcome. We take it, develop it, and make it our own.”

Photographed by Sara Saad

Then, his voice takes on a sharper edge. “At some point, I started asking myself, where are we in all of this?” he says. “Everything around us is taught and defined through a Western lens. They call it the ‘global style,’ but it’s really just the Western style everyone agreed to follow. For us, it became important to reclaim our own authorship and to create something that feels of the time, not of imitation.”

Still, beauty alone doesn’t always guarantee acceptance, especially at home. While KML’s gender-fluid silhouettes and modern reinterpretations of traditional attire have earned international acclaim, they’ve also sparked controversy within Saudi Arabia. “The older generation understands it—they’ve seen men wear skirts and dresses before, in traditional dances and ceremonies,” says Ahmad. “The younger generation finds it cool and rebellious. But our own generation… that’s where the resistance lies.” He’s referring to those caught between two cultural epochs: too modern to romanticize the past, yet too conditioned to fully reimagine it. Some critics accuse KML of being “provocative,” others of straying from “authentic” Saudi identity. But the architect and designer refuses to shrink himself for palatability. “We don’t engage in those conversations,” he says evenly. “We just continue working. What we’re doing, we believe, should exist in this realm. It’s not about pleasing everyone.”

When I ask whether the backlash ever made him doubt himself, he pauses. “It’s tiring,” he admits, “but we’re not here to be liked. We’re here to exercise culture.” That distinction—exercising rather than preserving—is key. “The worst thing we can do to culture is imprison it in folklore,” he says. “Here, culture is something people watch, not something they live. We see men wear skirts in traditional dance and say, ‘Oh, that’s fine, they’re dancers.’ But when someone wears it in daily life, suddenly it’s scandalous. That’s dangerous. Culture should be lived.”

Photographed by Sara Saad

Before KML was born, Ahmad was designing in private—sketching, experimenting, building his visual vocabulary while working in architecture. The push to share his work came from Razan, his partner and the brand’s co-founder. “I was doing it in the basement,” he recalls. “Razan is the one who pulled me into the universe.” Their dynamic is one of mutual trust and rigorous critique. “I design, Razan does everything else—including being my toughest critic,” he smiles. “It’s always a conversation. We fight, then we eat.” Together, they shaped KML’s identity as a fashion house, not a brand. The distinction matters. There are no visible logos, no viral gimmicks—just what Ahmad calls “canvases” for the wearer to interpret. “We’re not branding people,” he says. “We’re creating forms that grow with them.” Each collection builds upon the last, a slow wardrobe evolution rather than a seasonal reinvention.

Even the name reflects this philosophy. KML—from the Arabic kamal, meaning “to become perfect or complete”—captures their belief that clothing completes the human form. “Everything in nature is already perfect,” Ahmad muses. “A tree doesn’t need clothing. But humans become more complete when they wear it.” Though the brand’s garments are currently produced in Europe—with leather from Italy, wool from the UK, and tassels from Damascus—the dream is full localization. “The goal is to have everything made in Saudi,” he says. “Not only to support ourselves but the wider community.” It’s an ambition that aligns with the kingdom’s rapidly growing fashion sector, fueled by government investment and a generation of designers defining a new aesthetic lexicon.

In this shifting landscape, KML stands out not just for its design language but for its depth. Where many brands look outward for inspiration, Ahmad and Razan look inward—into anthropology, theology, and philosophy. “Fashion doesn’t exist in a vacuum,” he says. “It’s shaped by politics, environment, technology, religion. Understanding that gives your work meaning.” That depth of thought extends even to how the duo approaches education. Ahmad, who begins teaching next year, plans to share his research on the history of men’s dress through time and geography. “We call it ‘Whatever Happened to Men,’” he says, half-jokingly. “It’s about tracing how men used to express themselves through clothing before fashion became so limited.”

When I ask what advice he’d give to young Saudi designers, his answer feels almost like a prayer. “Do good things,” he says simply. “Not better than anyone, not worse—just good, true things. Don’t copy. Don’t compare. Just do.” It’s advice rooted in humility and patience, virtues that define both KML’s process and Ahmad’s worldview. “A mentor once told me, your path in fashion is like prayer,” he recalls. “You do it every day. You don’t know if it’ll be accepted or not, but you keep doing it. Eternally.”

For a designer often accused of being ahead of his time, the metaphor feels fitting. Part of us can’t help but feel that when the wold does finally catch up, KML will already be somewhere else.

KML is the Saudi Brand That’s Both Ahead of Its Time, Yet Rooted in Its Place

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KML is the Saudi Brand That’s Both Ahead of Its Time, Yet Rooted in Its Place

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