Digital archive preserves Palestinian culture

During the Covid-19 pandemic, Zain Masri came upon the idea of setting up a free digital archive of traditional Palestinian tatreez embroidery. “I was looking for a creative outlet and tapped back into tatreez,” Masri says of her lockdown experience.

With time on her hands, she decided to reconnect with the embroidery she learnt as a child, but soon encountered difficulties. “I joined online communities but began to notice a recurring obstacle [when it came to getting] access to traditional patterns. Someone would post a photograph, asking if anyone has seen this pattern before. And someone else would find bits of it, like a corner element, but rarely the full pattern. It was an ongoing challenge,” she says. “So, I figured there has to be a more efficient way to find patterns and increase access to them.”

Proud of her Palestinian heritage, she realised this distinctive red-on-black embroidery was deserving of a broader archive.

Masri was introduced to tatreez at a young age during summers spent visiting family in Jordan. “I would see my grandmother sewing things and I was so curious. I would ask a tonne of questions and found watching her mesmerising. She introduced me to different aspects of sewing and slowly began introducing me to the Palestinian tatreez.”

As a form of sewing, cross stitch is centuries old. Featuring a double stitch in the shape of the letter X, it is easy and relatively quick to do.

Across Palestine, in particular, it evolved into a distinctive language under which dense red embroidery richly is worked across the front panels of dresses, on sleeves, around hems or seams. “What makes it unique is the patterns and the motifs, which tend to be traditional.”

As a complex conversation of patterns, motifs and symbols, it became a way to document moments in the lives of women and families. “Women would use it as a form of self-expression. The embroidery was very detailed, with the chest pieces unique to each woman’s story. It was used to express which village she was from, whether or not she was married, if she had children or if she was a widow.”

However, this richly nuanced and unique vernacular - featuring motifs of trees, birds, amulets, stars, camels and arches, as well as geometric forms - faces an uncertain future. Since the 1948 Nakba, when Palestinians from hundreds of villages, towns and cities were violently displaced, and in the following decades of violence, the histories linking people to geographical places are beginning to fade.

The entire tatreez art form is at risk. Without concerted efforts to protect and record this history, there is a good chance that once there is no one left to identify a particular pattern, what was once steeped in layers of meaning, will become mere decoration.

“It’s really an endangered art form and so it’s important to keep preserving the traditional patterns – that’s what led to me setting up Tirazain,” Masri says.

Tirazain was set up to be an open-access digital archive of Palestinian embroidery, a resource that anyone can use. However, converting each pattern into a digital template is a laborious and time-consuming endeavour.

“The digitalisation process involves manually plotting each cross on a digital grid and then exporting the file in different formats. Some practitioners like to see the pattern on a grid, some like it marked as X and some like it in machine-embroidery format.”

To broaden the appeal, Masri makes every pattern available in six different formats. “This is part of making it accessible, available and easy to read.”

With hundreds of thousands of patterns and variations to document, Masri understands this is a very long-term undertaking. She is driven by the desire to accurately catalogue as many patterns as possible and help save tatreez from extinction. “Pattern books do exist but, ironically, it can be pretty difficult finding them in the Middle East,” she says.

Meanwhile, the art seems to be drawing in a new audience. “The majority of users are beginners, maybe learning about tatreez for the first time, or looking to reignite their interest. I have come across people who are using the patterns to give workshops or using the motifs as building blocks for their own work.”

This kind of unrestricted access is entirely in keeping with the spirit of what tatreez represents, she says. “When we look at the history, it was a shared experience. Women would gather and share patterns, and these would be passed down from mother to daughter, grandmother to granddaughter. It was a community event.” Through Tirazain, she hopes to help ensure these traditions survive.

While Tirazain’s database is still relatively small, at about 1,000 patterns, Masri has noticed an increase in visitors since the war on Gaza began in October.

“I have seen a lot more people learning about tatreez for the first time, practising it for the first time, and there is a lot of creativity around patterns and coming up with new patterns using those traditional motifs,” Masri says.

“With what’s happening right now, people are craving a sense of community, and this is one way people can connect,” she says. “People see tatreez as a form of solidarity and connection, and we have noticed a greater sense of coming together.”

Given the situation, Masri describes having a “sense of urgency” about the need to build an archive to ensure future generations do not forget their roots. “Many Palestinians live in the diaspora, and it is really difficult to connect to your heritage when you live in fragmented communities all around the world.”

In addition, many tatreez dresses are now old and increasingly fragile. “I can digitise from a photograph, I don’t need to have the piece with me physically,” Masri says. “The problem with the old pieces is that they are made from organic materials that degrade with time if not preserved correctly. Many are fragile and require specialist care to prevent permanent damage.”

While the archive will protect the thousands of patterns that make up tatreez, it cannot record the personal stories that accompany each piece. “It’s important to hear all of these stories about how women in the Nakba carried these dresses with them [as they fled],” Masri says.

Much cherished, the dresses were brought along when countless other fragments of life were left behind. Despite this, many also changed hands over the years. “Many families ended up in refugee camps and needed money. The women had to sell the dresses for cheap.

“They would have loved to keep them and pass them on to children and grandchildren, so now there is a strong emotional connection about these pieces staying with their caretakers, rather than scattering them further,” she says.

While the physical clothes may now be scattered across the globe, in the hands of collectors and museums, Masri hopes to help reunite them once again – digitally, at least.

“There is still so much to do. There are so many patterns and motifs out there. I am just going to keep going and help preserve them.”