Lebanese by heritage but raised in Nigeria, Aya Safieddine was initially introduced to the resale scene after moving to London for university. Popular platforms for secondhand shopping in the city meant resale had become a visible part of the fashion landscape, but her search for something similar in Lebanon was to no avail. The country had no shortage of taste or talent, but its secondhand scene was scattered across Instagram pages, with vintage sellers operating through social media rather than a centralised space. Archif, her online marketplace for Lebanon’s vintage sellers, was born from that gap: a platform that gathers existing curators under one digital roof.
For Aya, Archif became both a route into the country’s creative community and a way to reframe how resale is understood in the region. In the Middle East, she found a more personal point of entry than savings or sustainability: the family hand-me-down. Clothes passed between relatives are a familiar way of preserving family history as much as personal style, carrying meaning, memories and material culture from one generation to the next. Archif takes that private practice and gives it a public platform, turning pre-loved fashion into a means of preserving Lebanon’s wider fashion history.
Most recently, the mission extended to Dear Lebanon, With Love, her London pop- up created to raise US$100,000 for families displaced by the conflict in Lebanon. Donated vintage pieces were set to fill the rails, until Lebanese fashion names, including Georges Hobeika and Andrea Wazen, came forward to lend their weight to the cause. Here, Aya speaks to MOJEH about building Archif, challenging secondhand stigma and why pieces with a past may be the most powerful.
Photography by Mariam Ajami
MOJEH: Archif grew from the gap you found in Lebanon’s pre-loved market. What is the platform, and what inspired you to launch it?
Aya: I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria — my family moved there around 60 years ago as part of the Lebanese diaspora in West Africa — before leaving for London to study International Development. While I was at university, I would spend time scrolling through the resale platforms in the UK. When I travelled to Lebanon twice a year, I naturally started looking for something similar. Instead, what I found was a market that felt fragmented, with sellers posting photographs of themselves in pieces they had sourced and buyers completing their purchases privately via Instagram DM. At the beginning, I reached out to curators whose work I felt had potential and asked them to meet with me. Archif was born; an online platform that brings Lebanon’s stylish vintage shops together under one website.
Your grandfather’s wardrobe was a driving force behind Archif. How did his story set the tone for the platform?
My grandfather passed away around five years ago, and he was the kind of man who wore a suit from top to bottom. I don’t think I ever saw him in a pair of jeans. His suits were all custom-made and beautifully tailored, and inside the pocket there was his name, the name of his tailor, his tailor’s phone number and the year the suit was made. Some of them are 30 years old, but there was something so personal and precise about that detail. These weren’t clothes; they were records of his life.
When he passed away, my grandmother gave away some of his suits because we didn’t know what to do with more than 50 of them. To me, I felt I was losing part of him, and feared the thought of those who received them reading my grandfather’s name as that of a stranger. It made me think more deeply about clothing and its relationship to memory, In that way, I’d say it became the emotional core of Archif. To me, Archif, which translates to archive in Arabic, is a way of saying that our clothes carry our culture.
In the West, secondhand shopping is accessible through platforms like Vinted and Vestiaire Collective, but in the Middle East there are fewer channels for it. When vintage is framed through saving or sustainability, it can create a stigma in the region. When I was younger and secondhand shopping was becoming more popular, I would tell my mother I was going thrifting and she would ask why. It’s a very Arab reaction to question why you would buy secondhand if you can afford to buy new. To her, it felt almost shameful, as though buying something pre- owned meant you couldn’t afford otherwise. I found that contradiction inspiring. In the Middle East, inheritance is so natural to us. My cousins have my mother’s purses from when she was 20. Passing pieces down is deeply embedded in our culture, but it’s something we’re used to doing within the family, rather than something we go out and do in a secondhand shop. I wanted to use the family hand-me-down as a familiar thread in the Middle East, and show that secondhand is not strange or shameful. The West may have packaged it through saving and sustainability, but in our communal societies, it’s a crucial part of preserving our culture and always has been.
Through Archif, I wanted to say that buying a pre-loved garment can be understood as taking a piece from someone else’s grandmother in Lebanon or finding something from a Lebanese designer from 20 years ago that deserves to be preserved. In the same way that we pass pieces down within our families to protect our personal histories, shopping secondhand in Lebanon is a valuable way of preserving the country’s history. Today, when a seller lists something sentimental on the site, there is an option to include the item’s story. Through Archif, you’re not only buying a piece; you’re buying into a story.
Elevating secondhand shopping to a luxury level is important to Archif. Why?
I wanted Archif to feel as luxurious as possible. I understood instinctively that, for a Middle Eastern audience, fashion is tied to status. I felt vintage was beginning to become the new status symbol, and I wanted Archif to tap into that. Today, when a product can go viral overnight, everyone ends up carrying the same bag or wearing the same shoes, however expensive they may be. Today, A-list celebrities wear archival fashion to exclusive events because it carries a stamp of rarity.
Pop-ups became crucial because hosting them in physical spaces in Beirut and London allowed us to create a more elevated association around vintage. One of our first pop-ups was at Art Haus, a boutique hotel in Beirut, and the setting changed the way people perceived the experience. On the ground floor, we had clothes and accessories, while upstairs was filled with vintage furniture. It felt like walking into an 1980s living room. It was a community space as much as a shopping space, somewhere people felt proud to gather. Guests stayed until 10pm, smoking and drinking coffee, and it became a place from a bygone era for creatives to come together; a hub for Lebanese students, shoppers and stylists.
Have you seen Archif change how customers think about consuming vintage in Lebanon?
I have, 100 per cent. I have had so many messages from people of all ages saying they had never bought secondhand in their life, but bought their first piece because of Archif. I remember going to a wedding in Lebanon in December, a few weeks after my pop-up, and meeting five different people who told me their earrings or their bag were from Archif. Lebanon is so small that I would be walking down the street and recognise someone’s shoes. My grandmother brings her friends to the pop-ups, and they all go straight to the jewellery table. I watch them walk around, trying pieces on, asking each other what they like, and then coming back the next day with their daughters. It fills me with pride because it shows that Archif is resonating across generations. Younger people bring their mothers or grandmothers, and people tell me that when they wear their grandparents’ clothes now, they think of Archif.
You started Archif as a way of moving to Lebanon. In what ways has the platform brought you closer to the country and its creative community?
Before Archif, I didn’t really know anyone in Lebanon beyond my family because I only spent my summers there. When I first started, I was clear on social media that I wanted to grow my business and move to Lebanon. I think that speaks to something much bigger within the diaspora. A lot of people, whether they have never lived there or once left, are now feeling this pull to go back home. For previous generations, the dream was often to leave, chase the American dream and build a life abroad. For many people in our generation, the dream is returning.
I wanted to move to Lebanon and live with my grandmother for a few years, in a way that would bring me closer to my family and to the country itself. While the conflict has meant that I’m still in London, since starting Archif, I have met so many people and learned so much about Lebanese culture, particularly Lebanese fashion. To me, the point of Archif is that I felt we were not connected to that history. In Nigeria, for example, you can walk down the street and see someone wearing traditional fabric that tells you the tribe they’re from. In Lebanon, I felt that for the younger generation, buying from the high street felt more familiar than buying from a local crochet maker. I wanted Archif to bridge that gap.
Photography by Mariam Ajami
You hosted Dear Lebanon, With Love, a London pop-up aiming to raise US$100,000 for families displaced by the conflict in Lebanon. When did the project begin?
When the conflict in the region escalated, I felt it was time to act. My initial idea was to have individuals donate pieces, which we could then sell as our way of raising money. I know that when you are going through conflict yourself, there is a lot of donation fatigue. Unfortunately, people are often more likely to buy a US$500 bag than donate US$500, so I kept thinking about how we could make doing good feel as simple as shopping, while championing Lebanese fashion.
I made a video saying, “I want to raise US$100,000 for Lebanon. Who can help me?” Georges Hobeika got in touch and said, “We want to donate pieces.” I was thinking, what on earth is happening? Designers were reaching out to me before I’d reached out to them. We had over 40 designers donating pieces for the pop-up. I don’t know how we pulled it off.
Community is crucial, and Lebanon is no stranger to rallying together in times of turmoil. How has the fundraiser given the creative community an outlet?
I initially felt that I couldn’t continue Archif as normal. How am I going to market luxury bags when people are displaced on the street? I paused operations for the business for two months, including our social media, because I felt we needed to do something. I launched the initiative because it didn’t feel right to continue life as normal during such a dark time. I know that fashion can be political and is political. I have this platform and I want to use it. Everyone is contributing in one way or another. Lebanese designers volunteered to help design the space, photographers donated their prints and stylists helped us source secondhand. It takes a village, and it’s one I’m so proud of. At the end of the day, it’s about bringing people together during a dark time.
What were some of your personal highlights from Dear Lebanon, With Love?
We hosted the pop-up on Kensington High Street. Georges Hobeika was a huge highlight, but we also partnered with Creative Space Beirut, who provide free fashion education to underserved youth in Lebanon. We sold an exclusive necklace by Jinan Beyrouth, an independent jewellery brand, with pearls and a heart that says ‘Teta’ and ‘Jeddo’, which means grandma and grandpa in Arabic. We had pieces from Sandra Mansour, and a clutch from Vanina that looks like a love letter. Sarah’s Bag, Ahmed Amer and Nada Debs sent incredible pieces; I couldn’t contain my excitement.
We served Arabic coffee and brought in memorabilia from Lebanon because we wanted it to feel like people were coming home. We thought about every detail down to what incense to buy so that, when you walked in, it would smell like your grandmother’s house. We hosted a letter- writing workshop as a way for the diaspora to reconnect with Lebanon and create an archive of what people are feeling at this exact moment. The goal is to curate an online exhibition where you can upload your letters, so that in 10 years’ time you can look back and see what people were feeling as they were going through the war. In the same way that our parents tell us their war stories, these are now ours: this is where I was, this was my life.
What has been the response from those involved in the fundraiser?
People said, “I wish I had this much energy. Thank you for putting this together.” We made it as simple as possible. We would say: ship it to my grandmother’s house in Lebanon and we will handle everything else. The fact that so many brands reached out to me, rather than the other way around, says so much about the feeling behind it. I did end up sending a lot of messages, but most of the big brands I wanted came to us first. People were moved by the idea.
Looking ahead, what does your vision for the future of Archif look like?
I want Archif to grow into an archive of Arab brands on the platform, where you will find an Elie Saab dress that is 50 or 100 years old in the same way people in the West search for vintage Margiela or archival Dior. I want that same reverence, romance and respect to exist for Lebanese fashion, from archival Sarah’s Bag to the regional names whose work should be remembered. The fundraiser in London felt like such a beautiful bridge, because it has finally allowed me to connect directly with Lebanese brands. A lot of them are not old enough yet to be vintage, but we are creating the ecosystem now. If you’re looking for them, I want Archif to be where you find them. Discover Archif
Originally published in the June 2026 issue of MOJEH Magazine. Subscribe here
