19-07-2025
Stitching solidarity
Women across Kuwait have embraced tatreez — a centuries-old nPalestinian craft — as an act of remembrance, resistance and connection
By Leena Alsuwaidan
uring the pandemic lockdowns, as routines dissolved and isolation set in, a quiet cultural revival began in living rooms across Kuwait. Among those drawn to it were my mother, Mariam Baghdady, and her close friend, who found not just a hobby but a purpose in a centuries-old Palestinian tradition: Tatreez, the art of embroidery.
They joined an online class hosted by Wafa Ghnaim called Tatreez and Tea, dedicated to teaching traditional Palestinian embroidery and the history embedded within it. What began as a weekly stitching session quickly evolved into something deeper. Participants weren't simply copying patterns — they were also learning their meanings, origins and the symbolism behind each motif. Certain shapes represented villages, colors reflected regional identities and lines carried legacies. Each stitch was part of a larger story passed down through generations.
In a time when Palestinian identity is often politicized or erased, embroidery has emerged as a powerful act of cultural resistance and remembrance — especially for women in the diaspora. Tatreez is more than a craft; it's a living archive, a way of remembering, honoring and holding onto a homeland that exists more in memory than on any map.
Palestine Map made with Tatreez Cross Stitch Embroidery Vector Art isolated on white
Tatreez, decorative Palestinian embroidery symbol
Kuwait Times asked Baghdady why practicing tatreez is important to her. 'Even though I am not Palestinian, I feel connected to these women and hope that I can contribute to the preservation of this art and pass it on to the next generation,' she said. Kuwait Times also spoke with Montaha Alsuwaidan, another participant in the sessions. When asked about a moment that stayed with her, she shared: 'The moment that stayed with me was when she explained the Biyut pattern. I never knew it actually represented something real, like an aerial view of the neighborhood. It made me realize that whether you look at tatreez from close or far, it's one big, beautiful story.'
Here in Kuwait, the tradition has taken root in new and unexpected ways. Small groups of women — Palestinian, Arab or simply connected to the cause — are gathering to learn the stitches and the stories behind them. For my mother, joining the class was an act of cultural solidarity and learning. With each needle pulled through cloth, she wasn't just practicing a new skill — she was engaging in an act of remembrance, care and respect.
The revival of Palestinian embroidery here reflects more than artistic interest. This movement is not confined to a single class or space. Organizations like the Women's Cultural and Social Society (WCSS) have hosted tatreez workshops in collaboration with local Palestinian activists. Cultural hubs like Bayt Lothan have included embroidery exhibitions and storytelling sessions to deepen public understanding. Even informal stitching circles have sprung up in homes, cafés and cultural centers — offering women a way to gather, share and resist quietly and consistently.
These embroidery circles are forming quiet but meaningful communities. They connect women across generations and backgrounds through shared stories and steady hands. While the world rushes forward, tatreez asks its practitioners to slow down, to sit, to stitch, to remember.
When asked why embroidery became so meaningful to women in Kuwait during that time, Alsuwaidan reflected: 'Because handcrafts were always how women expressed themselves when they didn't have a voice. And now maybe it's fading because women are finally being heard more.'
In Kuwait, the revival of Palestinian embroidery is more than a cultural trend — it's a testament to survival. One stitch at a time, women are keeping Palestine alive — not only on fabric, but in memory and spirit.
