Microcosms In Felt: Traditional Kyrgyz textiles
Recovering historical and spiritual meaning in traditional Kyrgyz textiles
Guest edited by Toby A. Cox
Adorning the floor of my apartment, are two Kyrgyz Shyrdaks (felted rugs). The larger one is grey, white, and dark purple with bright pink stitching. It features spirals and two antlered deer leaping towards the centre. The smaller one is grey and white, depicting interlocking figures and a wavy border. They are among my most prized possessions, treasured for both their beauty and the stories contained in the shapes pressed and sewn onto them.
Traditionally, these felted rugs were not sold to visitors like myself, but rather handmade and passed down generation to generation. The ornaments pressed into these textiles are aesthetic but this beauty also serves a function: to preserve the family’s history, spiritual philosophies, and cultural knowledge. Families still have Shyrdaks that have been passed down for generations. Though these traditional textiles remain priceless heirlooms, the stories they once told are fading from the collective memory after centuries of Russian imperial and then Soviet colonial rule.
Image: Shyrdak made by Baktygul, an artist from Naryn.
When the Kyrgyz people were nomadic pastoralists, one didn’t make a traditional Shyrdak alone—it was a community effort among relatives, neighbours, and friends, and still is where the art form is practiced. Men shear the sheep, women process and dye the fibres and collaborate to create designs, and people work together to roll and stomp on damp wool enough times to compress the fibres into a dense felt material. “Each fibre sticks together and creates a synergy,” said Chinara Seidakhmatova in an interview. “This is why felt plays a big role in the life of Kyrgyz people.” The way the fibres of wool become interconnected in the process of making felt is, for Chinara, a metaphor for the interconnectedness of all things.
Chinara grew up in Kyrgyzstan during the Soviet Union in an academic family. As a child and young adult, she rejected traditional values, unable to see logic in them. Her own spiritual journey is connected to the fall of the Soviet Union. Like many in academic communities throughout Eastern Europe and Central Asia, Chinara experienced a crisis of identity at this time. She turned first to Islam and then to Christianity, satisfied by neither. Then she discovered Tengrism. “I stopped going to church and began to focus on ornament studies. Mysticism is in all of our [Kyrgyz] customs, rituals, and traditions,” she said in one of our interviews.
Chinara, an academic, does not make Shyrdaks or Ala-kiyiz (another type of felted rug), but she has devoted the last few decades of her life to recovering the stories they tell of the Kyrgyz people and her ancestors’ spiritual beliefs. The first time I met her was in November 2017, when a group of people, myself included, gathered around her inside a yurt set up in the middle of Bishkek. The inside of the yurt was dim, and a light haze of smoke hung in the air from the still-smouldering juniper twigs used in a cleansing ritual. but it was warm with colourful, welcoming textiles covering the walls and floor. We sat on tushuks (traditional floor cushions) and listened intently as she spoke about Tengrism, a modern movement to revive the beliefs and rituals of ancient Turkic and Mongolian nomadic communities.
Image: Janygul, a friend of Chinara, in traditional dress.
In the Kyrgyz language, yurts are not ‘built’; they are ‘planted.’ When a couple got married, the families of the bride and groom worked together to ‘plant’ the yurt. Like the making of shyrdak, this is another collaborative process that embodies balance, a key tenet of modern Tengrism symbolized through Kyrgyz ornaments, felted wool, and the colour grey as a balance between black and white. “The skeleton of the yurt structure was made by the family of the groom, and everything soft was made by the bride’s family,” Chinara said. The ‘soft’ things included wall hangings, felted rugs, and cushions—things that make a place feel like home.
These textiles tell stories of the bride’s family and can be ‘read’ by those familiar with the language of Kyrgyz ornaments. “My grandmother passed away in 1973, and she was one of the last people who could read and give messages through decorations,” Chinara said. “My grandmother passed her knowledge to me.” It wasn’t until later in her adult life, however, that Chinara learned how to pay attention and apply what her grandmother taught her. “Everything in this world can be shown through ornaments from humans to the stars,” she said. And, for Chinara, everything is.
Image: Kalpak.
Spirals, waves, and interlocking shapes resembling people and totemic animals such as rams and deer are common features of Central Asian ornaments. To Chinara, an ornament is not a flat, static shape; she sees it in three dimensions—its physical representations, how it relates to the person it was passed down to, and its connection to the universe. In this case, wavy lines may simultaneously resemble water, a hope of prosperity for future generations, and sinusoidal vibrations of energy pulsating throughout the universe.
Spirals may resemble the sun, fire, or the spiral shape found within snail shells, pinecones, and animal horns. Zoom in further, Chinara says, we find the spiral shape in DNA. Zoom out, and we find the shape of our own Milky Way galaxy. They resemble a hope for continuity, an ode to a cyclical view of time, rather than a linear one. Spirals are used strategically in interlocking shapes resembling people in abstract, likely specific ancestors. Shapes with ‘arms’ spiraling down toward the earth are associated with men and the material world, while shapes with ‘arms’ spiralling upward are associated with women and the spiritual world. “The level of curliness signals age,” Chinara said, meaning the curlier the spiral arms, the older the ancestor represented.
The part filled in with black depicts a female figure, with the ‘arms’ turned upward
These ornaments are simultaneously micro-histories of individual families, mediums of communication from ancestors to descendents, and depictions of the macrocosm in miniature. “Everything is changing and moving, and our ornaments are a projection of nature’s motions,” Chinara said. “They are pictures of the universe.”
Image: Hyrdak.
Today, most Shyrdak are sold in traditional open markets or enclosed shopping centres in Kyrgyzstan, but they can also be purchased online on Etsy. Many people fear that the art of making traditional Shyrdaks and Ala-kiyiz is disappearing both as artisans age and commodification of these textiles grows. Manufacturing processes are replacing the traditional community-based process, and imported materials are replacing local wool to reduce costs. As a result, both Shyrdak and Ala-kiyiz were added to the UNESCO List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding in 2012.
My own Shyrdaks have not been passed down for generations; they were purchased in 2018 from two artisans, Baktygul and Aisalkyn, who make and sell them out of their homes. When I look at my Shyrdaks, I acknowledge the role they play in the art form’s modern narrative—one that is threatened by over-commodification. But I can also see the patterns of interconnectedness that Chinara taught me to see—the vibrations and particles pulsing throughout the cosmos in waves, balance in the symmetrical designs, and continuity in the spiralling, interlocking shapes. Perhaps most clearly, however, I can see community in the compressed woollen fibres, flattened by the feet of Baktygul, Aisalkyn, their relatives, and neighbours. My own footsteps, as well as my guests’, continue this effort, connecting the lives of those here and there through these microcosms in felt.
Guest edited by Toby A. Cox
Adorning the floor of my apartment, are two Kyrgyz Shyrdaks (felted rugs). The larger one is grey, white, and dark purple with bright pink stitching. It features spirals and two antlered deer leaping towards the centre. The smaller one is grey and white, depicting interlocking figures and a wavy border. They are among my most prized possessions, treasured for both their beauty and the stories contained in the shapes pressed and sewn onto them.
Traditionally, these felted rugs were not sold to visitors like myself, but rather handmade and passed down generation to generation. The ornaments pressed into these textiles are aesthetic but this beauty also serves a function: to preserve the family’s history, spiritual philosophies, and cultural knowledge. Families still have Shyrdaks that have been passed down for generations. Though these traditional textiles remain priceless heirlooms, the stories they once told are fading from the collective memory after centuries of Russian imperial and then Soviet colonial rule.
Image: Shyrdak made by Baktygul, an artist from Naryn.
When the Kyrgyz people were nomadic pastoralists, one didn’t make a traditional Shyrdak alone—it was a community effort among relatives, neighbours, and friends, and still is where the art form is practiced. Men shear the sheep, women process and dye the fibres and collaborate to create designs, and people work together to roll and stomp on damp wool enough times to compress the fibres into a dense felt material. “Each fibre sticks together and creates a synergy,” said Chinara Seidakhmatova in an interview. “This is why felt plays a big role in the life of Kyrgyz people.” The way the fibres of wool become interconnected in the process of making felt is, for Chinara, a metaphor for the interconnectedness of all things.
Chinara grew up in Kyrgyzstan during the Soviet Union in an academic family. As a child and young adult, she rejected traditional values, unable to see logic in them. Her own spiritual journey is connected to the fall of the Soviet Union. Like many in academic communities throughout Eastern Europe and Central Asia, Chinara experienced a crisis of identity at this time. She turned first to Islam and then to Christianity, satisfied by neither. Then she discovered Tengrism. “I stopped going to church and began to focus on ornament studies. Mysticism is in all of our [Kyrgyz] customs, rituals, and traditions,” she said in one of our interviews.
Chinara, an academic, does not make Shyrdaks or Ala-kiyiz (another type of felted rug), but she has devoted the last few decades of her life to recovering the stories they tell of the Kyrgyz people and her ancestors’ spiritual beliefs. The first time I met her was in November 2017, when a group of people, myself included, gathered around her inside a yurt set up in the middle of Bishkek. The inside of the yurt was dim, and a light haze of smoke hung in the air from the still-smouldering juniper twigs used in a cleansing ritual. but it was warm with colourful, welcoming textiles covering the walls and floor. We sat on tushuks (traditional floor cushions) and listened intently as she spoke about Tengrism, a modern movement to revive the beliefs and rituals of ancient Turkic and Mongolian nomadic communities.
Image: Janygul, a friend of Chinara, in traditional dress.
In the Kyrgyz language, yurts are not ‘built’; they are ‘planted.’ When a couple got married, the families of the bride and groom worked together to ‘plant’ the yurt. Like the making of shyrdak, this is another collaborative process that embodies balance, a key tenet of modern Tengrism symbolized through Kyrgyz ornaments, felted wool, and the colour grey as a balance between black and white. “The skeleton of the yurt structure was made by the family of the groom, and everything soft was made by the bride’s family,” Chinara said. The ‘soft’ things included wall hangings, felted rugs, and cushions—things that make a place feel like home.
These textiles tell stories of the bride’s family and can be ‘read’ by those familiar with the language of Kyrgyz ornaments. “My grandmother passed away in 1973, and she was one of the last people who could read and give messages through decorations,” Chinara said. “My grandmother passed her knowledge to me.” It wasn’t until later in her adult life, however, that Chinara learned how to pay attention and apply what her grandmother taught her. “Everything in this world can be shown through ornaments from humans to the stars,” she said. And, for Chinara, everything is.
Image: Kalpak.
Spirals, waves, and interlocking shapes resembling people and totemic animals such as rams and deer are common features of Central Asian ornaments. To Chinara, an ornament is not a flat, static shape; she sees it in three dimensions—its physical representations, how it relates to the person it was passed down to, and its connection to the universe. In this case, wavy lines may simultaneously resemble water, a hope of prosperity for future generations, and sinusoidal vibrations of energy pulsating throughout the universe.
Spirals may resemble the sun, fire, or the spiral shape found within snail shells, pinecones, and animal horns. Zoom in further, Chinara says, we find the spiral shape in DNA. Zoom out, and we find the shape of our own Milky Way galaxy. They resemble a hope for continuity, an ode to a cyclical view of time, rather than a linear one. Spirals are used strategically in interlocking shapes resembling people in abstract, likely specific ancestors. Shapes with ‘arms’ spiraling down toward the earth are associated with men and the material world, while shapes with ‘arms’ spiralling upward are associated with women and the spiritual world. “The level of curliness signals age,” Chinara said, meaning the curlier the spiral arms, the older the ancestor represented.
The part filled in with black depicts a female figure, with the ‘arms’ turned upward
These ornaments are simultaneously micro-histories of individual families, mediums of communication from ancestors to descendents, and depictions of the macrocosm in miniature. “Everything is changing and moving, and our ornaments are a projection of nature’s motions,” Chinara said. “They are pictures of the universe.”
Image: Hyrdak.
Today, most Shyrdak are sold in traditional open markets or enclosed shopping centres in Kyrgyzstan, but they can also be purchased online on Etsy. Many people fear that the art of making traditional Shyrdaks and Ala-kiyiz is disappearing both as artisans age and commodification of these textiles grows. Manufacturing processes are replacing the traditional community-based process, and imported materials are replacing local wool to reduce costs. As a result, both Shyrdak and Ala-kiyiz were added to the UNESCO List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding in 2012.
My own Shyrdaks have not been passed down for generations; they were purchased in 2018 from two artisans, Baktygul and Aisalkyn, who make and sell them out of their homes. When I look at my Shyrdaks, I acknowledge the role they play in the art form’s modern narrative—one that is threatened by over-commodification. But I can also see the patterns of interconnectedness that Chinara taught me to see—the vibrations and particles pulsing throughout the cosmos in waves, balance in the symmetrical designs, and continuity in the spiralling, interlocking shapes. Perhaps most clearly, however, I can see community in the compressed woollen fibres, flattened by the feet of Baktygul, Aisalkyn, their relatives, and neighbours. My own footsteps, as well as my guests’, continue this effort, connecting the lives of those here and there through these microcosms in felt.