When I think of weavers, what comes to my mind are the ladies in the back of the knitting store in my Southern California hometown, the ones who hang out on weekend afternoons with their handlooms \u2013 weaving cloth shawls, blankets, or the occasional modern tapestry.<\/p>\n
Here, weaving is, by and large, a pastime. Some would call it an art form. The ladies in the back of the knitting shop are craft weavers. We might consider them \u201cartisans\u201d and laud them for mastering the truly ancient craft.<\/p>\n
In the West, machines do most of the commercial weaving, not people. In Ethiopia, and elsewhere in the developing world, handloom weaving is most often an occupation for men and one that isn\u2019t usually heralded for its artistry. Weaving isn\u2019t a prestigious job and, by and large, those who weave are the working poor.<\/p>\n
Traditionally, men are the weavers. I\u2019ve heard what felt like an odd gender role (from my American perspective) explained as merely a function of physiology. Handloom weaving requires the strength \u2013 and therefore the physical mass \u2013 to batten, which is the term used to describe moving the beater (a long metal or wooden bar that is used to keep the weft thread or yarn in place).<\/p>\n
Women spin the wool or cotton into thread that\u2019s loaded onto spools and then strung onto the loom\u2019s warp (lengthwise thread) and weft (the thread that weaves in and out of the warp thread.)<\/p>\n
The sound of handloom weaving is unmistakable. The shush of the Flying Shuttle<\/a> \u2013 a small missile-shaped object, often fashioned from dogwood, that holds the weft thread \u2013 as it\u2019s thrown through the shed, or warp threads. The slam of the beater. The click of the heddles.<\/p>\n