Exploring Japan Through Thread: A Textile Lover’s Reflection

As someone whose work is deeply rooted in Palestinian embroidery, I’ve come to understand textiles not just as art or adornment—but as story, resistance, memory, and relationship. So when I traveled to Japan, I knew I wanted to experience it not just as a tourist, but through thread.

This wasn’t a trip about sightseeing. It was about listening—deeply and intentionally—to the voices of Japanese artists, storytellers, and generational makers who continue to shape the country’s textile legacy.

A Novel that Looms

As a Palestinian in the diaspora—especially one who grew up and now lives in the United States—I’ve spent much of my life watching my people’s story be told by others. Often, those narratives are filtered through non-Palestinian voices, stripped of nuance, flattened by politics, or worse, weaponized against us. I felt this most clearly growing up as an avid reader, constantly searching for reflections of myself in stories that didn’t see or understand me.

That’s why I’ve made it a practice to seek out novels written by authors from the cultures I’m trying to understand. Not books about them—books by them. Because I believe that stories are most powerful when they come from those who’ve lived them. We don’t need colonial filters or secondhand interpretations. We need the truths held in the voices of those rooted in the land, in the language, in the weight of that experience.

So when I arrived in Japan, I began, fittingly, with a novel: The Old Capital by Nobel Prize winner Yasunari Kawabata. Set in Kyoto, the story is quiet but piercing. At its center is a young woman, Chieko, raised in Kyoto by adoptive parents who run a kimono shop. Her story unfolds quietly against the backdrop of seasonal festivals, ancestral craftsmanship, and the shifting rhythms of a city where tradition and modernity coexist in delicate tension.

This novel didn’t just open a window into Japanese life. It laid the foundation for how I approached everything else I encountered: understanding kimono not as fashion or trend, but as a textile archive—loomed with memory, place, and legacy.

Here are some of my favorite quotes that shed light on the art of kimono making:

“The craft of hand weaving was said to be a difficult skill to pass down for three generations. Even if the father was a superior weaver—even if he had, so to speak, an artist’s hand—his ability would not necessarily be inherited by his children. It was not that a son would purposely neglect his work, resting on his father’s accomplishments, but that the son might turn out to be untalented, however earnestly he might strive.

Often a child was first taught to reel thread when he was four or five. Then, at ten or twelve, he received training as an apprentice weaver. Finally, he was able to weave for wages. For that reason, having a large number of children often helped a family to prosper. Even an old woman of sixty or seventy could reel silk inside the house, so in many homes a grandmother and her little graddaughter sat working together…” (page 44)

“‘Hmm, it’s excellent. The color harmony…fine. You’ve never drawn anything so novel before. Still, it’s restrained. Weaving it will be difficult. But we’ll put our hearts into it and give it a try. The design shows your daughter’s respect for her parents and her parents’ affection for their daughter.’” (page 42)

“‘Small home businesses like mind with hand looms will probably disappear within the next twenty or thirty years…if one survived, wouldn’t it have to be under government sponsorship as an ‘Intangible Cultural Treasure’?’” (page 43)

Stitching on the Go: Sashiko in Motion

I first learned the art of sashiko from a fellow small business owner here in New York City—Jess—whose passion for slow stitching and cultural respect mirrors my own. Just before I left for Japan, she gifted me the perfect travel project: a simple, repetitive pattern that required no overthinking, just the steady rhythm of needle and thread.

I tucked it into my bag, and as I journeyed through Japan, I stitched between train rides and coffee breaks—threading my quiet moments into the flow of a place where sashiko was born. The technique wasn’t new to me, but practicing it there felt different. Each stitch felt like a soft conversation with the land, a subtle honoring of the generations before me who stitched beauty into utility.

Thank you, Jess! If you're looking to start sashiko or are ready for your next project, check out her business Miniature Rhino.

I also stumbled upon a dreamy little atelier in Kyoto called Sashiko Lab. Though I didn’t have time to take a class with the owner, Kazue, it’s at the top of my list for next time—there’s something profoundly meaningful about learning directly from those who inherit and carry these traditions in their lineage. I did, however, leave with two beautiful new sashiko projects and a set of threads manufactured and sold exclusively in Kyoto—true treasures in my eyes. You can follow Kazue and her incredible work at Sashiko Lab on Instagram!

Shibori: A Generational Dye Practice

One of the most moving moments of my journey was learning the traditional dyeing technique of shibori at the Kyoto Shibori Museum—a space lovingly stewarded by the Yoshioka family, who have dedicated generations to preserving this centuries-old craft.

The museum was founded by Kenji Yoshioka, a second-generation shibori artisan whose father, Yoshioka Jinzaemon, established their family dyeing business in 1939. Today, Kenji’s son, Nobumasa Yoshioka, carries the tradition forward as deputy director, continuing their legacy of both preservation and innovation.

After folding, binding, and dipping my fabric into dye, I set it aside to dry—expecting that to be the end of the experience. Instead, I was invited upstairs for a personal tour of the museum's second floor. What I found there took my breath away. I learned not just about the technical variety of shibori techniques—some of which take months to complete—but about the ethos behind them.

There are only four artisans in all of Japan who still know how to perform one of the most time-intensive shibori methods. It’s an endangered practice not because it’s been forgotten, but because it demands so much time, attention, and care—qualities that modern life often rushes past.

I was especially moved by one small, poetic detail: the museum had begun reusing the threads that bind the fabric during dyeing—threads that are usually discarded—as part of new artworks. Nothing is wasted. Every element is seen, appreciated, and invited to contribute beauty.

This, to me, speaks to something I felt again and again in Japan: a deep cultural reverence for attention, for patience, and for honoring the process—not just the result. In a world obsessed with speed and shortcuts, being in this space reminded me of the quiet, radical value of slow work done well. Of giving things—and people—the time they need to become what they’re meant to be.

It was more than a lesson in dyeing. It was a lesson in living.

My only regret? Not having enough time to try the full indigo dyeing experience—which requires more time, care, and presence than I could give that day. But maybe that’s the point. Some traditions ask us to slow down. I’ll just have to return when I can give it the time it truly deserves.

Temari and Kimono Fabrics

In a small boutique in the heart of Kyoto, I joined a local artisan for a Temari-making workshop. Temari are traditional Japanese decorative balls that were originally made as toys but are now often given as gifts to symbolize good luck and friendship.

In the workshop, we used pieces of reclaimed kimono fabric to cover the spheres, then decorated them with colorful cords. It was a simple but thoughtful process, and a creative way to give new life to beautiful old textiles.

During the session, the artisan offered us a cup of Kyoto’s signature green tea and a crunchy cinnamon cookie that’s famous in the region. It was such a kind gesture and made the experience feel welcoming and personal—more than just a craft activity, it was a moment of connection.

Wearing My Own Embroidered Piece

One of the most meaningful experiences of my trip was wearing my own handmade Palestinian dress from Jeel Design through the streets of Kyoto. The dress—a modern silhouette stitched with a historic Qabbeh on the chest piece of the garment—felt like a way of carrying my identity with me, visibly and proudly.

We had taken a day trip from Osaka to revisit Kyoto, specifically to walk through the famous bamboo forest. As I moved through the towering bamboo, passed through busy train stations, and ended the day thrifting back in Osaka, I kept thinking about the generations of women—Japanese and Palestinian—who came before me. Each with their own stitches, their own stories, their own lived experiences woven into the garments they wore. It reminded me that clothing, when made with care and intention, holds memory. And that sometimes, wearing something handmade is also a way of honoring where you come from.

And also, these pieces are made to be worn! I love fashioning hand-embroidered pieces in everyday life—not saving them for one-time events or special occasions. Whether I’m walking through a bamboo forest or browsing a thrift shop, I love styling these pieces with intention and joy. Because our stories deserve to be lived in—not kept on a shelf.

When Cultures Stitch Together

And then, something unexpected: a collaboration that brought everything full circle.

I learned about a project where a Japanese designer invited Palestinian embroiderers to add tatreez—our traditional embroidery—to the obi of a kimono. It wasn’t fusion for aesthetic’s sake. It was intentional. Tender. Rooted in mutual respect.

Two traditions, stitched into one garment. Two geographies. Two griefs. Two resistances. One shared thread.

More information here.

Final Threads

To explore a place through its textiles is to listen—to its people, its land, its histories. And when you’re a diasporic maker, it also becomes a chance to carry your own threads into new places—not to overwrite, but to honor and witness.

From Palestine to Japan, I was reminded:
Threads don’t just decorate.
They remember.
They resist.
And sometimes, they reach across oceans to hold hands.