Between May and June, 2024, we travelled more than 14,000 miles to bring you this story. To unravel it will require a lifetime. It’s enough to give this ramblin’ gal the Mediterranean Homesick Blues.

Only one dozen or so miles from Etrim in southern Türkiye (Turkey’s preferred spelling as of 2021), the Greek goddess Athena, a historically sore loser, turned a human woman named Arachne into a spider, because Arachne’s weaving was superior to that of the jealous Olympian. But the threat to Turkey’s weaving today is far more immediate than a taste of Hellenic hubris. That threat is the modern siren-song of the city.

It’s a story that I’ve encountered for decades around the world as I wander in search of textile cultural histories. Eight of my nine lives ago, a beloved, now-gone woman-friend and I played a game of chicken across northern and central Mexico. The game was to drive to points where the map ran out of ink. Not even a dot to identify their locations. Tiny, dry pueblos where indigenous dialects were still remembered and preferred, and Spanish, the language of the huero oppressor, was spoken only grudgingly.

Ironically, the old women in these villages made magic with gifts brought by the conquerors: wool combed from Spanish hoof stock, floor-looms brought by the same, replacing the backstrap weaving with vegetable fiber that had preceded the arrival of Cortes, steel needles, pins, scissors, cotton thread and yardage brought to El Dorado by the missionaries. Some wove tapestries and rugs, but this required grazing space for the sheep, a bit of rainfall, and some capital. But invariably, they embroidered, often creating women’s blouses that the developed world would condescendingly call “peasant” blouses: densely decorated yoke, gathers over the bust, and sleeves secured with a strand of colored floss versus the more modern elastic. The most dazzling examples were white-on-white, white motifs embroidered on white cotton. In the old days prior to 1950 or so, these literally blinding treasures were trousseau items, wedding gowns, and baptismal garments that often doubled as shrouds for deceased infants, a sadly regular occurrence then and now in Mexico.

The gaily stitched Mexican blouses and dresses one encounters today in the big resort towns are but a modern, commercial echo of these garments. In Tulum and Mexico D.F., and even Oaxaca or Michoacan, the blouse you snap up as a souvenir may be machine-embroidered (look at the backside of the sewing; it’s easy to tell). This is efficiently done in literally minutes with a computer chip and an industrial sewing machine. The body of the garment itself may be a cheap, scratchy polyester-cotton blend, versus creamy, slubby homespun cotton. If elegantly hand-embroidered, the garment may have been sewn in India, or of course China, expertly applying Mexican motifs and colors.

The reason is the same in many places in our world: young people don’t stick around in the sleepy old villages, and so do not learn the artisanal skills cherished by their abuelitas, their grandmothers. Like millennials and Gen Xers everywhere, they have high-tech skills, and they want everything the Great Satan of the West offers, from air-conditioning and high-speed internet, to Botox, to a gleaming-new, cherry-red Lambo in the driveway.
Those rambles across various Mexican states thus became a farewell tour. I collected a hundred blusas (blouses), a hundred cuentas (stories). Time after time, I heard a variant on “Esto es la ultima”—this is the last one, as she handed me the blouse. “No mas.” No more. My eyes no longer see well enough, my hands hurt, and the muchachitas don’t care. In a final bittersweet twist, an especially difficult folk motif, depicting rows of tiny girls and boys holding hands like strings of paper dolls, was called “Hazeme si puedes”—Make me if you can, went the grandmothers’ challenge. Today, few can, or even try. “Ni modo.” Lastima que. It’s a shame.

The gloomy story is the same in the Venetian lagoon. Everyone visits Murano for its fabled glass, overlooking her more introverted stepsister Burano, the lace-making island. The lace museum there is usually closed, and seems more of a museum of undisturbed dust. Tablecloths, draperies, anti-macassars (does anyone even remember what those are for?) and clothing of exquisite fineness are offered for sale all over Burano, with astronomical price-tags defended with the staunch islander pride which negates bargaining. Tiny lace souvenirs of local scenes, religious images, and even the instantly recognizable likenesses of celebrities—Harry and Meghan are having a moment– are tacked to corkboards on the street in a desperate attempt spark interest from tourists.

To children of 21st century-technology, and more about the word itself shortly, the expense of handmade Buranese lace apparently doesn’t seem worth it. As a folklorist, I know that saying this is blasphemy. But machine-made lace now is manufactured in patterns templated directly off superb originals, made with synthetic yarns that resist red wine and grease stains and are machine-washable, often priced at around 10 percent of the price of a handmade island equivalent.

Echoing their sisters across the Atlantic in Mexico, the Italian nonnae (grandmothers), fewer and fewer of them surviving each year, will tell you that young people flee their island with career aspirations and lifestyle ambitions which do not include thousands of tedious hours sitting motionless to accommodate many thousands of hand-gestures on bobbins and other ancient tools, tatting and twisting and knotting.

One nonna told me that Arabian merchants, blown off-course, first brought lacemaking to Burano, bearing lacework from Cairo, Damascus, Beirut and other points east. She believed that the art of fine knotting was perfected by the women of the harems, explaining, “It takes a lot of patience to make lace, lots of frustration, and even more boredom.” The samples were deconstructed and studied by nuns, in a different type of seraglio, who used their skills to create ecclesiastical garments and altar parament. Girls and young women, another nonna told me, don’t want to look like they came from a place with donkeys and hairy women — a direct quote from the Italian. They are anxious to leave for Rome, London, Tokyo, and of course America.

The nonnae are probably right, by the way, about the Arabian origins of lacemaking. Textile authorities trace all knotted work, including knitting, crocheting, and macrame, to the ancient Near East. In those cultures, making knots was talismanic, with the tying of each knot accompanied by a prayer or invocation—basically to deflect the gaze of what in Turkey is called “Nazar Boncuk,” or the evil eye. Making the knot was a way of securing or sealing the blessing, and this notion of knotting as spell-binding in the literal sense entered and persisted in Europe. “You got to pick up every stitch, / Must be the season of the witch,” as Donovan sang.

A common folk-belief then and now in many cultural traditions is the idea of a love-knot to bind a lover’s attentions to the knotter:

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

(Excerpt, “The Highwayman, Alfred Noyes, 1906.)

Give a listen to Phil Ochs’ version of this Gothic ballad.)

And my fellow folkies will of course recall the mention of the rose growing ’round the briar to form a “true lover’s knot” in the evergreen “Barbara Allen.”

Roman Catholic tradition cites the BVM (Blessed Virgin Mother) as the “Undoer of Knots,” citing the primary knot as humanity’s link to treacherous Eve. Punning modern versions of this Marian devotion implore Our Lady to undo “…the have nots, can nots, do nots, will nots, may nots, might nots” in the heart of the supplicant. Given the historic roots of knotting in non-Christian traditions, this devotion may also be interpreted as a dissolution of any ties with a pagan past. By contrast, the Christian Orthodox practice of creating prayer-ropes, tasseled lengths of knotted wool made with a knot that incorporates seven crosses to deflect Satan, persists today.

And let’s remember that Orthodox Judaism addresses (and prohibits) many kinds of knotting which may be considered labor or work, especially on Sabbath. Yes, the rabbis discuss the relative status of a bow, the tying of a child’s shoelace, and the proper and improper use of twist-ties on plastic bags. To stay on the safe side, the Chosen may ask a gentile — a shabbes goy—  to tie a knot if needed.

Both lace-making and Mexican embroidery are now examples of folk art practices which, although praised by historians and ethnographers, will soon be relegated to memory. Could the handmade rug be next?

Wherever we wander, from the arroyos and canyons of Mesoamerica to the winding cobblestone alleys of Burano to the sloping hills of Asia Minor, we encounter technology in the form of textile-making. The word “technology” arises from two Greek words, “techne,” associated with skill in the arts, and “logos,” for study or practice, and many scholars now consider weaving and other textile-making to have been the first human production technology, locating the first known examples of woven cloth to the Upper Paleolithic period (28,000 to 20,000 years ago), sourced to Eurasia. Eurasia is a vast and poorly defined span of territory with amorphous borders which nevertheless is considered to be the origin-point for the many ethnic cultures which gave rise to the people who now call themselves Turkish.

Turkish culture’s specific birthplace is now believed to be southern Siberia or Mongolia, or northern China, several thousand miles from Etrim, where we discovered a family weaving studio in June of this year. The rugs woven there as part of Etrim Hali co-op reflect thousands of years of migration as sheep-herding nomads who initially created thick tapestries and carpets to insulate their yurts from brain-frying heat as well as bitter cold. Their weaving also told their stories and defended their identity.

One fiber in particular was sought after, and is still in demand today: “siirt” as it is called in Turkish, also known as “kasmir” (yes, as in cashmere) “pashm” (think “pashmina”), mohair. This fiber is the dandelion-fluff undercoat of a goat breed, a constant companion to the people of Anatolia and other parts of Western Asia. The long, fine hairs of the angora, named for Ankara, modern Turkey’s capital, functions like goose down or fiberfil, efficient at trapping air, but silky, lightweight and fast-drying compared with sheep’s wool.

Turkey’s weaving tradition predates Islam by centuries, and Muslim religious practice added new dimension to the design and production of rugs, including those used for prayer. Verses from the Qur’an woven in scrolling calligraphy are the dominant motif in many of the priceless pre-tech rugs housed in world museums. In especially arid places where no tulips or roses grow, a Turkish kilim (meaning a flat-woven rug with no pile, also spelled “kelim“) often depicted a flowering garden blooming around a Tree of Life design amidst splashing fountains and strolling peacocks, comforting proof of Allah’s generosity and mercy, as well as the promise of an eternity in Paradise. Because Turkish kilim are double-knotted, there is no “wrong side.” The two faces are identical, thus making the rug more long-lived. When the top gets worn or soiled, flip it to the B-side.

Anatolian carpets were initially recognizable for their squared-off geometric patterns and stylized animal motifs, including designs called “Akrep” to protect against scorpions, and others called “Kurt Agzi” and “Kurt Izi,” meaning “wolf’s mouth,” woven to keep village’s sheep safe from the predators. The sense of constant danger, whether from beasts or the unseen but powerful evil eye, plays a major role in the cosmology behind the weave. Styles changed in Ottoman Turkey in the early 16^th century CE, after conquests in Persia and Egypt. A more lyrical,  flowing approach called “Saz” emerged, featuring Chinese mythological creatures including the dragon, phoenix and Qilin. These and other imported ideas were depicted among palmettes, long, feathery leaves with serrated edges, lotus blossoms and clouds.

These and many other genres of Turkish kilims glow softly, rolled and stacked shoulder-high inside the rough-hewn rooms with stucco walls and exposed overhead beams where Engin Basol, his mother Ummuham, father Mehmet and other family members and close friends weave and sell rugs today in Turkey. The journey into Etrim’s remote hills is really only a little more than 300 miles from the bustling shimmer and glitz of Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, the largest covered market in the world, but it may as well be another planet, and another century. The narrow road to get there winds through steep terrain which seems familiar to me as a long-time resident of Southern California. Prickly-pear cacti and purple thistles cling to the hillsides, and bougainvillea, shrimp-pink and magenta, tumbles down worn stone walls. A few scruffy palm trees lean over shallow canyons.

Stepping out of the car, the air carries the  perfume of woodsmoke and randy funk of nearby livestock. A rooster crows in greeting. Although the day is warm, a fire blazes in the outdoor patio hearth where women sit cross-legged the floor and sprinkle flatbread with the wild herbs that sprout among the rocks. Ripe mulberries, food for silkworms, fall on the cement walkway, and pomegranates swell on nearby branches.  Beside the entry to the house, skeins of wool bubble in hot dye-pots and hang from wooden pegs to air-dry. With the nomadic past in the rear-view mirror, Engin explains that his family has had roots in this area for 500 years.

“My mom is 69 years old,” he says, “And she knows 10 patterns completely by memory.” A younger weaver may use a gridded cartoon, as it’s called in English, or planning diagram, to guide her fingers. And yes, it’s distinctly “her,” for weaving here is women’s work as it often is elsewhere in the world. “We are a dowry culture,” says Engin as we slip off our shoes to enter the studio, then sit and sip warm Coca-Cola and local white wine from plastic tumblers, nibbling on the hot flat bread and “lokma,” also called “awameh,” dainty bites of deep-fried dough, soaked in honey and rolled in cinnamon and sugar (remarkably like a Turkish churro). I’ve heard it said elsewhere in Turkey that “A woman who can’t make a rug can’t make a good wife,” usually said with an amused lift of the eyebrows.

Although the thread has been broken, in generations past, a young woman would often weave her own dowry rug anticipating an offer of marriage. I can’t help but think of patient Penelope a few clicks to the west , broken-heartedly weaving the days away at her loom while spurning suitors, waiting for Odysseus to return. The deal she made was that she’d wait for him until she had completed the weaving of a covering for their marriage bed. Each night, she rips out and destroys the day’s work, so that she is never finished.

Shifting from Homer’s Greece back to Turkey, the idea of the dowry-rug explains why many traditional motifs, including the “El Parmak” or “Tarak,” or wool-carding comb, are popular design elements. For even further cosmic safety, the comb is always depicted with five tines or teeth, echoing the Prophet’s hand or protective Hamsa. Equally popular: stylized images of “Küpe” or earrings, a classic wedding gift, and rugs bearing the design called “Sacbagi,” representing the ornate diadem worn by a Turkish bride on her wedding day.

 Women using textiles and handwork to send coded messages is nothing new in patriarchal Turkey. A needle-lace form called “oya” employs tiny tatted knots to create flowers, fruit and vegetal shapes, stylized leaves, and…tombstones? The latter sends a clear message along the lines of “You’re dead to me.” Oya has been used for generations as a decorative edging on a scarf, shawl or other women’s garment. This exquisite craft can express a woman’s state of mind in environments where she may be (MAY be?) socially silenced. Seeing a woman in the market wearing a scarf fringed with red chili peppers instantly signals sizzling anger, usually conflict with a spouse or mother-in-law. Tulips, long a source of Turkish pride, may indicate the wearer’s wish for a son.

In rug-making, the triangular “Eli Belinda” motif represents a woman standing with her hands on her hips. The usual interpretation is that this warrior-like stance is lifted from Anatolian mother-goddess figures, which seems reasonable. However, it’s hard not to see this defiant female posture as that of a woman scorned, perhaps ditched at the altar by a bounder. Break out the red chili-pepper oya headscarf.

Engin continues, “Many of the rugs we weave are presented when a woman gets married. Also many of them are used in homes around here, and of course out there…” He gestures toward the north and west, and smiles softly.

Approximately 300 people live in Etrim and the village generally doesn’t show up on maps, while Bodrum to the south, a much larger district, is home to approximately 193,000. Turkey’s economy and future are fragile but promising. During COVID, the tourism-reliant areas of the country suffered revenue losses of 60 per cent and more. However, skillful self-promotion, including partnerships with air-carriers, has resulted in a significant rally. While this is good news for all merchants, the biggest surge among tourists is from China, and Chinese tourists typically take little interest in buying Turkish rugs.

Engin says, “I feel like what we do may be a dying art, and I will not let it die. It’s too important. We keep our culture alive by weaving these rugs and bringing our story to the world.” He’s a “modern”- looking man in black jeans and tee shirt, clean-shaven, fit, one who would look right at home anywhere in the west, and yet he has no desire to lose himself in the noise of our consumerist Mc-monoculture.

While Etrim is rustic, Turkey overall is not. Istanbul ranks as one of the most sophisticated cities of the modern world, where your wait-person at a café will easily shift from speaking Turkish to Arabic to Farsi to Greek to French, Spanish or Italian to English just to find out if you want cream for your coffee (something that locals in Greece as well as here consider an esthetic violation of their deeply dark morning joe). Women of perfectly ordinary means wear a few thin bangles of 18 and 22 karat gold with generic jeans, tee and sneakers. Everyone seems to have a PhD. Yet in spite of the tension between a village life spent pursuing a traditional art form, versus the excitement of the glittering world beyond the goats, the oven and the loom, Engin delightedly tells me that his young daughter has begun to weave,”…learning so much just by sitting and watching. She’s not even ten years old, but she already loves this.”

Hearing her granddaughter’s name mentioned, Ummuham says something to Engin in Turkish, which he translates. “Mom says the beat of the loom is like the beat of the heart.”  She laughs sweetly, using what’s called a “kirkit,” Turkish for hammer, to bang each row into tight submission. The tighter the weave, the more accurately the design elements will synch up. A tight weave also ensures long wear, although many Americans choose to hang their rugs on their walls, a practice which Engin says he still doesn’t quite understand. “These rugs are tough, they are strong,” he says. “They are an heirloom investment, for you to pass to your child, and her child after that.” He shrugs, and I remind him that removing footwear at the front door is not an automatic habit in the West. He looks mildly sickened by this news.

 These seated floor looms immediately reminded me of those you’ll see in Dine’ (Navajo) country, as well as in weaving centers in Mexico. I instantly realize for the first time the literal origin of the word “heirloom”: this is loom-weaving for heirs. The similarity between New Mexico pueblos  and Turkey is not surprising in the least, since the Spanish brought sheep and weaving from the Old World. Some First Nations people deny this observation, to which there is no meaningful response.

Also not surprising: the geometric patterns appearing on Chief’s blankets and other masterpieces of indigenous American weaving often bear a striking similarity to rugs produced on Engin’s patio. One motif in particular surfaces again and again, a diamond with serrated or toothed edges. These appear in Turkish rugs as “Pitrak,” or the burdock plant, the “Göz,” or eye, and triangular compositions called “Muska” and “Nazarlik.” All of these are apotropaic, intended as harm against harm, protection from the evil eye which causes men to become impotent, rivers to go dry, and cows (and human mothers) to stop lactating. For a deep dive into this subject, read the essay by the brilliant Dr. Alan Dundes, “Wet and Dry, the Evil Eye: An Essay in Indo-European and Semitic Worldview.”

Here, it’s worth mentioning that Turkish people, like their Iranian cousins, are not “Arab.” They are not considered a Semitic people, either, unlike the Bedouin and Berber cultures of Arabicized Africa. These definitions are especially significant today in light of world politics. Making these distinctions does not lead to division, but rather to clarity and respect. What’s actually dangerous in this context is lumping together all people from a specific part of the world, who seem to share many characteristics, starting with how they drink their coffee, and how they pray. While of course we may find commonalities, recognizing the individuation is essential.

This is also why Engin rejects the antiquated (and non-specific) term “Oriental,” still widely used to describe Turkish rugs as well as Persian rugs and weaving from other parts of Asia Minor. The word “oriental” is not a slur in and of itself, simply arising from the Latin, oriens, meaning where the sun rises. Thus, when we are “disoriented,” we literally don’t know where to watch for the sunrise. The counterpoint, “occidental,” is from the Latin word for falling, indicating where the sun will set. Again, the inherent imperialism and embedded racism of these words is acquired, not innate; the words themselves are of neutral source, but in context do describe the world seen from a purely western point of view.

Over our now-tepid, flat cokes, Engin explains that Persian rugs use a single knot, while his Turkish rugs use a double-knot. The sturdier double-knot technique accounts for the rectilinear design inclination of Turkish rugs, versus the curvier forms in many Persian rugs. It’s apparently easer to produce curves with the single-knot style. The right angles which figure so prominently in Turkish rugs are dictated by the structure of the weave itself, explaining the similar stepped style in the rugs of the Dine’ and other First Nations weavers.

Then there’s the color palette. “For wool, we use only natural colorings, from wild lavender for purple, indigo for turquoise, the skin of an onion for yellow, crushed walnut shells for the brown, and cochineal, a little scale bug that lives on cactus, for the red,” says Engi. His weavers also use sage for gray-green tones, which, he adds, “…also makes an excellent tea.” Because the wool is hand-dyed in individual batches or dye-lots, the color is rarely consistent batch-to-batch. This means that a woven area may start off as, say, a deep teal, then warm to an Aegean green, simply because the botanicals used to dye the second batch of wool were younger, older, or in some way different, perhaps due to a difference in rainfall, or a seasonal shift in sunlight, which affected the plant’s inner chemistry. In shaa Allah, as Allah wills it to be so. This sort of discrepancy is not viewed as a problem or failing in Etrim. In fact, inconsistency of this kind demonstrates that the rug is genuinely handmade with organic dyes; synthetic colors, by contrast, are much more consistent. Moreover, the natural variations in dye-color are enhanced by the double-knot technique, which sometimes produces a nearly-hologramic effect as the light changes throughout the day.

“Machine-made rugs are always perfect,” he says. “There’s no question. Each machine-made rug of any quality, and there are very beautiful ones, is flawless, because the weaver never gets tired, she’s never sick or sad, she never has a fight with her mother. The colors will always be matching because there’s no sun, no rain, the wool or silk they used is dyed in huge vats, as big as this room, so the wool does not remember nothing. If you want perfect, buy a machine-woven rug. We devote ourselves to the beauty of this thing, but we don’t hold ourselves to the machine standard. Only the Almighty can make perfection, not me, not you.”

When his weavers use silk, synthetic pigments must be used for time-efficient, effective dying; the incredibly tensile silk strand resists mild organic color.  His rugs may also include cotton fiber. Elsewhere in Turkey, kilims are being woven from 100% recycled plastic (PET) yarn and are 100% recyclable at the end of their utility. Engin listens, nods, seems non-plussed and adds, “Well, that is good for the environment. But I’m not sure that those are really kilim. I wouldn’t think that they’d be very…”  In this rare instance, his otherwise excellent English fails him.

His goat’s down or silk rugs may clock in at more than 1,000 knots per square inch, fewer for wool, even fewer for cotton. Depending upon the size of the finished piece, complexity of design, and the choice of fiber, a rug will require a few months or a few years to complete. The prices are perhaps half of what you’d pay in Istanbul, and perhaps one-third of what you’d pay in New York, and Engin ships worldwide for free.

“We don’t pay ourselves by the hour,” he says. “This is not a factory. We set a price for the completed rug, based upon how difficult, the cost of the raw materials…” His voice trails off a bit sadly as he glances over to the basket of silkworm cocoons which have just been boiled alive. The precious cocoons are now ready for spinning.

Some historians trace the serrated diamond shape ubiquitous among Dine’ weavers to the Saltillo blankets issued to various tribes by the U.S. government, which seems plausible since wool and weaving were introduced in Mexico before reaching the Great Plains of North America. Other examples of Western Asian art forms morphing in the New World include the decorative representation of the pomegranate, and of horses (neither were present on our continent until La Conquista), along with baroque styles of leather-carving and stamping. To our eyes, the latter seem so entirely “western,” as in country-western, when in fact these artisanal conventions and techniques are moored (pardon the pun) in the Middle East, another uncomfortably incorrect or at least incomplete designation, rooted not in Texas but in Tehran and other cultural capitals of the Mahgreb. Now in context, the ornately detailed traje de charro, and the bejeweled “suit of lights” worn by a matador seem unmistakably Asiatic – even East Indian– in inspiration.

In Spain, the granada or pomegranate symbolized the Levant. Multiple cultures – Judaic, Muslim, Arab or not – depict the pomegranate as a symbol of fruitful prosperity, often linked with New Year celebrations. The pomegranate has been iconic for Jews for many centuries, beginning with the fact that Torah identifies the pomegranate as one of the fruits that flourished in the Garden before the Fall. Some revisionist scholars maintain that the Satanic serpent tempted Adam and Eve not with an apple, but with a pomegranate, perhaps echoing Persephone’s enslavement to Lord Hades of the Underworld simply because she ate six arils, or garnet-juicy pomegranate seeds, from his dooming subterranean orchards. The Zohar or Book of Splendor compels observant Jews to obey not just the Top Ten Commandments (“Thou Shalt Not…”) but a total of 613 more minor mitzvoth (laws) throughout the year, 613 being the number of arils contained in a pomegranate. Why 613? Adding up the digits boils down to One, for the One G-d, YHVH.

This backstory contributed to the pomegranate’s status in prestigious family crests and coats-of-arms throughout Andalusian Spain, a motif that assumed its form in textiles, buttons, jewelry and other valuable goods. Europeans brought the first pomegranate trees to the Americas in the late 16^th century CE, where they flourished. Native Americans admired both the actual fruit and its stylized representation, and called it “squash blossom,” seen today in the extravagant indigenous sterling silver necklace so-named. These necklaces also feature what is called a “naja,” a crescent-moon shaped central pendant derived from royal Moorish horse tack, the same waxing lunar crescent that today appears on the Turkish flag.

And, in indigenous American art of all media, as well as in Turkish rugs, we may encounter what is called “Hac,” or cross, in Turkish. You perhaps will recognize this form as a reverse swastika, which in Turkish tradition is believed to foil the evil eye by dividing it into four pieces. Divide and conquer. Yes, we know that this symbol is archetypal, and it is found in pre-Nazi forms from India to Scandinavia, from whirling-log to Thor’s hammer, yadda yadda yadda. Nu? I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one, or is that a colossally poor choice of words?

At Engin’s urging, I walk in stockinged feet across the rugs, a bit gingerly. “I’m kinda scared!” I say, realizing that I’m treading upon a weaving that took years to complete, and even at Etrim Hali’s direct-to-consumer pricing (no middleman, no showroom) represents a couple of months’ worth of my rent.

“Aw, girl, don’t be scared!” laughs Engin. “It’s okay. You have to walk on it. You have to feel it. It’s made for your feet.” Although Etrim Hali sells online, something changes when you go from just looking to touching the weave. The repetitions recall drumbeats in the desert, the thumping rhythm of the loom at work, and I began to think that maybe I could indeed levitate aboard this extraordinary cultural vehicle under my striped socks, telling of weddings and wolves, abundant meadows and devastating early snows, fears and feasts, promises broken, curses, vows, praise and prayers, migrations, family, tribe, clan, where coded charms are locked in unending warfare with lurking scorpions and worse (the evil eye) along the rug’s borders.

A Turkish folk-song goes:

Kilim is a love to die for
A woven flag against the enemy
Brilliant hands touched its yarn
Woven on looms with love
Kilim is the flower, the gazelle, the lions.

As nomadic Turks travelled the expanse of Eurasia over the course of centuries, the flora and fauna they recorded in their weaving changed. But the ancestral memory persists.

“To tell you the truth,” says Engin, “it’s really best to come and touch the rug, feel it on your skin before you buy it. So just visit us. We’ll be here, waiting.”

Masha Allah.

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