What I Learned From a Week of Weaving Classes in Turkey

When I set out on a month-long trip to Turkey to connect on the ground with the history of hand-knotted carpets and woven kilims, I knew that I would encounter rich traditions that hold a long line of generational inheritance. Even when arriving with some textbook knowledge in my back pocket, it is quite a different experience to witness a craft in its indigenous land, where it is a part of the people’s bloodlines. Both thrilling and humbling, I was honored to have the opportunity to learn directly from the masters. They welcomed me in, and invited me to be part of the history they hold so dear.

The warmth of Turkish hospitality is not new to me. Fifteen years ago, I was served cup after cup of apple tea in any rug and ceramic shop I entered in Western Anatolia. After a lifetime of fast-fashion socialization so common in the West, I was drawn to their invitation to slow down. We shared stories of our lives while sipping tea and browsing their selection.

This time around, I was brought in even closer as I learned the crafts of weaving and natural dyeing. Even having experienced the embrace of the Turkish people fifteen years ago, I still was surprised this time around to learn the level of intimacy that weaving carpets entails.

Empowering Women Economically

I joined four weavers named Gülendam, Hafe, Adeviye, and Adalet in a central Turkish town called Sultanhanı that was once an important caravan stop in the 13th century. Within the walls of the restored caravanserai, or a Silk Road roadside inn, the women sit on the ground day after day, weaving a replica of a Seljuk-period carpet.

Author with four weavers in Sultanhanı, Turkey. Listed from left to Right: Gülendam, Hafe, Karen, Adeviye, and Adalet 

Sultanhanı's caravanserai, or a silk road caravan inn

I was under the instruction of Hatice Solak, a practiced weaver since the age of ten, who now teaches the craft to new weavers. One of 11 siblings, Hatice learned to weave from her mother and older sisters. At 18, she got engaged to Fahri Solak, the current Mayor of Sultanhanı. Since they were so young, the engagement lasted four years. In that time, she made everything in her dowry, including five carpets. After my first day of lessons, she invited me for tea and coffee, where she unveiled pieces of her dowry. I held the beautifully delicate lace and felt the hand-knotted carpets that her hands crafted decades ago.

Hatice Solak, weaver and teacher who has been making carpets since she was ten years old

A rug from Hatice Solak's dowry that she made when she was 18

When Hatice wasn’t showing me her dowry or taking me along to a three-day wedding in town, she was my teacher. She shared with me that when the weavers first met her, they were scared of her, but now they love her. I could see why. Hatice first comes across reserved and firm. Yet she teaches with patience and truly cares about the women she works with. “Some of the women don’t have husbands," Hatice shared with me. "With the salary they get from weaving, they are able to contribute to their happy homes. They can take care of their family’s needs and pay for their children’s dowry.”

Weavers in the Solak's workshop. Some are single mothers supporting their families through the income they make weaving. From left to right: Hürü, Hürü, Sevgi, Safiye

One of the weavers Safiye said, "I love my job." Through weaving, she can do what she is good at while supporting her family.

Carpet Making: A Collaborative Effort

Each day, I’d sit in my spot between Hafe and Adeviye, with our legs sometimes touching as one of us would need to scooch to complete our section of the line. Adeviye would lean on my right leg with her full weight as she’d inch closer, a habit I observed in other weavers in another village 700 km away from Sultanhanı. With Hatice behind me, she observed and corrected any mistakes as I went. The women didn’t speak English, and I arrived with barely 15 words of Turkish, barely enough to be able to get around the country. We relied on Google Translate and hand signals. Like a child learning to speak, I picked up the colors first, listening to the words then repeating them over and over. I felt victorious when yeşil (green), beyaz (white), mavi (blue), kırmızı (red), and siyah (black) finally imprinted in my brain.

On day one, I could barely figure out how to do the Turkish knot. Each time I would watch their demonstration, the knot seemed so obvious. Yet my fingers would forget as they slowly wrapped the yarn to connect two warp threads. Once I got the hang of it, Hatice and I compared what she had knotted in one minute compared to my small section. For every knot I completed, she could do five. It became our running joke over the next few days to measure my work with our fingers, and see how it compared to hers. By the end of the next day, I sped up (by just a hair!) to weave one knot for every four she completed. Hatice celebrated, holding four fingers up, and saying victoriously "Keren, dört!"

 

Author Karen Barnett learning to weave next to teacher and master weaver Hatice Solak

My weaving speed actually mattered because the other women could not continue to the next row until everyone was done. They quietly encouraged me, and their eyes glowed as I looked at them apologetically. By my last day, I realized I should only stay to a small section of the row, so that we would all finish around the same time, and the women could go at their normal pace without waiting for me.

The Case for the Slow Weaving Process

After my visit in Sultanhanı, I traveled west to Bergama, a region known for its extensive Greek and Roman ruins, to learn about the science and art of natural dyeing. Here, I attended a private class led by Mustafa Genç, an esteemed professor of natural dyes who hails from a family of weavers.

"The slower the better," Mustafa often reminded us, emphasizing the importance of patience and timing in the dyeing process. This methodical pace allows the dyes to set properly, but has the added benefit of providing natural breaks in the work. I imagined how this would fit into a woman's day in generations past, where weaving was not a singular job of anyone in the community. It was done collectively, among other activities, like cooking or even socializing. Between each step, we'd chat over tea as Mustafa taught the science behind the method.

The process begins with preparing the mordant, a substance that helps the color adhere to the yarn over long periods. Common mordants include iron and aluminum salts. We used two different types of mordants, mixing and heating them separately in water, to see how different chemicals impact the final color. 

Bathing the yarn in mordant is a crucial step, as it ensures that the colors in rugs remain vivid. This is how antique rugs still retain their vibrancy after centuries. Once the yarn is in the mordant bath, Mustafa instructed us to leave it for at least an hour. Again, he reminded us, "the longer the better." After leaving them in the mordant for a sufficient period of time, the bundles of yarn dried overnight.

The next day, we created the dye baths, using natural materials such as walnut skins, hibiscus, madder root, and buckthorn berries. Similar to the mordant process, the yarn soaked in the dye baths for at least an hour, then dried overnight before being rinsed the following day.

The author hanging bundles of yarn dyed with natural botanicals, leaving them to dry overnight

The beauty of natural dyes is the variations of colors that will appear in a final rug or woven kilim. Even when collecting the dye stuff from the same location, the color may be slightly different depending on what time of year the materials are collected, or any chemical reactions that occur in the dyebath itself. In our first day of setting the mordant, we realized the container was rusted, resulting in darker hues than we had originally anticipated. Like in baking, any chemical changes can alter the results. I felt that I was taking part in a beautiful experiment that has evolved over centuries.

Generational Skills that are Worth Valuing

Women throughout the region have been weaving for so much of their lifetimes, that they can visualize the rug’s patterns without even looking at a reference sheet. The visual language of rugs is so embedded in their minds, that the weavers in Sultanhanı easily corrected any errors I’d make, with just a quick glance at my work. Copying their method of first knotting the outline of the geometric patterns to help guide my eye, I started to understand how to use the last line to determine what colors came next. 

 

Weavers first outline the geometric pattern with the border color before weaving the inside colors

Historically, as with Mustafa and the women I sat beside in Sultanhanı, tribal weavers learned from their mothers and other women in the village. As Peter Davies shares in his book The Tribal Eye, unlike most Western weavers, “the tribal weaver simultaneously learns the motif and the technique, the two become inseparable in her mind. In contrast, novice Western weavers move systematically through a series of weaving exercises, beginning with simple techniques before moving to the more complex.”

This is how weavers in some of the most remote areas create such incredible pieces of art. Yet, the sad truth is that these traditions are being lost to industrialization and cheaply made commodities. Because our globalized economies do not value the work of artisans, families have stopped teaching their children how to weave. I visited Kıroba, a village where over a hundred natural dyers and weavers lived 60 years ago. Now, only one remains. The sole weaver Fatma Zehra works on a family heirloom simply because she loves it.

Fatma Zehra is the only remaining weaver in  Kıroba. 60 years ago, over 100 weavers lived in the village

The artisans of Turkey made it even more clear to me the importance of this heritage. Weaving and natural dyeing have been a cultural centerpiece for centuries, and it's at risk of being lost. The value of these traditions lies not only in their history but also in their sustainable practices. By using natural dyes and time-honored methods, artisans create beautiful works without the environmental damage associated with synthetic dyes and industrial processes. These practices fight against the extractive industries that deplete our natural resources, offering a model of production that respects the Earth and its cycles. If these skills are lost, we risk losing more than just a craft; we lose a way of life that connects us to the past and offers a more sustainable path for the future. The intricate knowledge and techniques passed down through generations are irreplaceable treasures that we must strive to preserve.