Naarm core isn’t just a fashion moment—it’s a conversation about the meaning we strip from place names, and the history and culture we gloss over for trendiness.
Why I paused on TikTok
I was doomscrolling through TikTok when a First Nations creator, Tariq Junaid Ismat, dropped a line that stopped me cold:
“Naarm core is just another way for White people to use our culture as an aesthetic.”
That line echoed a sentiment that had been brewing in my mind. Walking through Melbourne—or Naarm, as it’s truly known—means traversing land that Indigenous peoples have called home for more than 40,000 years. And yet, somewhere along the way, that deep-rooted meaning got flattened into a fashion vibe: ducky jackets, cargo pants, ugly-core ‘fit’, sprinkled with a hashtag.
What people mean by “naarm core”
Scroll through TikTok or Instagram in Melbourne, and you’ll soon notice the aesthetic: puffer jackets, cargo pants, fingerless gloves, Salomons, beanies. Some creators dub themselves “Naarmie”—a badge of this locally grounded street look.
On one hand, I get it: a kind of local aesthetic identity, rooted in urban life. On the other, I wonder: at what point does local aesthetic respect turn into local aesthetic take?
But what is Naarm?
Naarm (also spelled Narrm or Nairm) is the traditional name for what we call Melbourne. It’s part of the Woiwurrung and Boonwurrung languages, both from the Kulin Nation whose people have lived here for tens of thousands of years.
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Among the Wurundjeri (Woiwurrung), Narrm refers to the scrublands now covered by Melbourne’s CBD and surrounds.
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Among the Boonwurrung, it denotes the bay—Port Phillip—and its surrounding waters.
That history is profound: it’s not just a name—it’s identity, memory, survival and pride. It roots the city back in tens of millennia of continuous presence and culture.
When a name becomes a trend
As explained by Indigenous-led collectives, using Aboriginal language to fit a trending aesthetic dismisses the 65,000 years history and depth of Aboriginal cultures, languages and practices.
They note that while it’s wonderful to see Traditional Place names in public consciousness, those efforts ring hollow when they’re only surface gestures.
Indigenous people are not upset that non-Indigenous use the word “naarm” per se—they’re upset that it’s often used without context, without respect, and without anything deeper to back it up.
Voices from the land: Tariq’s perspective
Tariq Junaid Ismat, who is of both Aboriginal and Pakistani heritage, says that “Naarm core” stripped the name of its real meaning and turned it into an aesthetic mask.
He offers insight into how the trend took off:
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After 2020’s Black Lives Matter moment, many in Australia donned Indigenous messages or symbols to show solidarity—but too often without engaging with Indigenous voices.
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“Many White Australians jumped on board with Indigenous voices first as a means of support, later turning the narrative onto them… our words taken away from us and used… to put themselves on a pedestal of self‑righteousness.”
In his TikTok statement, Tariq implores viewers to remember that Naarm is anchored in ongoing stewardship and culture. It cannot be reduced to earthy tones, ugly shoes and local pride. It must be accompanied by action: honouring, supporting, learning.
Virtue signalling or meaningful engagement?
Naarm core often functions as virtue signalling—a nod to Indigenous culture where the gesture matters, but little else follows. Tariq is clear that merely using the word isn’t enough. He asks for purposeful engagement: employ First Nations people, donate to Indigenous-led initiatives, and keep learning.
Without that deeper action, the gesture fails—and the impact is hollow.
“It’s just a joke”—and why that hurts
In one TikTok, a creator responded to criticism by saying they were just joking. That’s the perfect word: joke—and it trivializes deep identity, trauma, and generational culture.
Tariq describes the emotional labour he endures anytime he educates people about this: he’s recounting communal trauma simply to ask others to show respect. That fatigue, that pressure—they’re real and exhausting. And the “it’s just a joke” defense becomes a weapon, pushing responsibility back onto those who speak, rather than those who hear.
Where to go from here
So… can anyone use “naarm”? Yes—after genuine engagement.
Suggestions from First Nations voices include:
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Educate yourself on Woiwurrung and Boonwurrung cultures and their connection to Naarm.
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Amplify First Nations creators in fashion, writing, film, arts—locally and internationally.
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Support Indigenous-led brands and designers whose vision comes from their heritage.
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Take concrete action—hire Indigenous talent, donate to causes like Pay The Rent, show up when it matters.
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If you use “naarm” in captions or bios, let it signal your ongoing commitment to rooted change—not just aesthetic appeal.
What echten Naarm looks and feels like
A respectful, rooted engagement could look like:
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Spotlighting Melbourne’s top Indigenous designers—promoting their work, sharing their stories, buying their pieces.
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Using “naarm” in social media with context: “Reflecting on this Country, its history + culture. Naarm.”
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Picking days like NAIDOC Week, Reconciliation Week, or local cultural events to center Indigenous narratives.
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Asking Indigenous consultants or liaising with Traditional Owners before launching projects using the names, symbols, or languages.
Are we stealing culture—or supporting it?
That’s the underlying question. When a culture with centuries of oppression and erasure shares its story, are you elevating it… or consuming it?
Naarm core, when done responsibly, could spark curiosity—and lead people to deeper engagement. But when it remains surface, it becomes another example of how colonial extraction continues—this time in fashion, not land.
In conclusion
Naarm is more than a place. It is:
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A living language—Woiwurrung/Boonwurrung—rich with meaning.
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The foundation of First Nations culture in the Melbourne region for over 40,000 years.
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A reminder that Indigenous stewardship remains in the present.
To use the name with clothing and aesthetic is not inherently wrong—but it is insufficient on its own. Without education, support, amplification, and action, it flattens deep tradition into a stylistic accessory.
The difference lies in approach. Will you wear Indigenous names as decoration, or as signifiers of connection and respect? Will you walk the talk—or remain on the surface?
