The Power and Legacy of Traditional Fabrics

Across civilisations, fabric has never merely been a material to cover the body. It has long held layers of meaning—threads of status, identity, spiritual significance, and expressions of political control. From the looms of West Africa to the imperial courts of China, textiles have functioned as tools of diplomacy, status markers, and mediums of storytelling. Though patterns may fade and techniques may evolve, the symbolic force behind traditional cloth endures.

In the Malay world, the glinting weave of songket holds centuries of heritage. Woven by hand with gold or silver threads into intricate motifs, this ceremonial cloth originates from the Minangkabau people of West Sumatra. Historically worn by royalty and nobility, its shimmering threads were not merely decorative. They reflected cosmic order and divine right. Certain motifs, like pucuk rebung (bamboo shoot), were reserved for aristocracy, symbolising growth and the continuity of power. Under the influence of Indian, Arab, and Chinese trade networks, songket emerged as a cloth of convergence—each thread a record of maritime connectivity and social stratification.

Further west, the Ashanti kingdom of Ghana developed its own visual lexicon in the form of kente. This vibrant woven fabric, traditionally crafted by men on narrow-strip looms, carries immense symbolic weight. Colours and patterns were carefully selected to communicate messages—red for sacrificial rites, gold for royalty and wealth, green for renewal. Worn exclusively by kings and spiritual leaders in pre-colonial times, kente transcended its function as clothing. It became a form of orature, visually encoding proverbs, historical events, and philosophical ideas. Today, it remains integral to Ghanaian identity, yet it also faces the challenge of mass reproduction and cultural dilution.

In the Middle East, Persian brocade—an art form known as zarbaft—demonstrated an empire’s sophistication. During the Safavid period (1501–1736), Iranian weavers produced silk and gold-threaded fabrics so fine that European traders and courts vied for access. These textiles adorned royal interiors, garments, and diplomatic gifts, broadcasting both economic power and aesthetic superiority. Often produced in Isfahan and Yazd, they fused Persian floral and geometric motifs with influences from Chinese and Ottoman designs. To own or wear brocade was not only to enjoy luxury, but to participate in a broader language of imperial grandeur.

Imperial China elevated textile-making into a state-regulated art form. Silk, first developed during the Neolithic period around 2700 BCE, was central to dynastic authority. Under the Tang and Ming dynasties, the production and use of silk became increasingly stratified. Yellow, associated with the emperor, was forbidden to commoners. The dragon robe—known as longpao—worn by emperors and princes, was more than regalia. Its structure and iconography, including the five-clawed dragon and mountain-wave borders, reinforced cosmological order and Confucian ideals. The Bureau of Weaving in Suzhou and Nanjing oversaw textile workshops that supplied the Forbidden City, solidifying silk’s place as both an aesthetic and political resource.

On the eastern edge of the Indonesian archipelago, the ancient village of Tenganan in Bali preserves one of the world’s rarest and most complex textile techniques—geringsing, a double ikat created through a painstaking process of resist dyeing both warp and weft threads before weaving. The word itself, derived from gerring (sick) and sing (no), implies protection from harm or disease, and the cloth is deeply embedded in ritual practice. Only the Bali Aga, or original Balinese of Tenganan, produce this sacred textile, which plays a vital role in rites of passage such as tooth-filing ceremonies, weddings, and funerals. Notably, the making of geringsing is not a commercial venture but a spiritual calling, preserved through generations. The symmetrical complexity of its patterns reflects a worldview rooted in balance, purity, and ancestral reverence.

Elsewhere in Indonesia, ceremonial hinggi from Sumba or ikat from Flores and Timor echo similar motifs of power and cosmology. In many Austronesian societies, cloth is not simply worn but exchanged—bridewealth, sacred offerings, or clan diplomacy are often negotiated through textiles. Specific patterns are exclusive to noble families or reserved for significant events, and mastery of weaving is considered an act of both artistic and spiritual devotion.

Colonialism, industrialisation, and globalisation have all impacted these traditions, yet their symbolic potency persists. Many communities have adapted ancient weaving practices into new forms of cultural activism. For example, African American communities have embraced kente as a diasporic symbol of resilience and pride. Similarly, Southeast Asian designers have reinterpreted songket and batik into contemporary fashion while preserving traditional techniques through artisanal cooperatives. In Iran, efforts to revive handwoven brocade aim to resist cultural homogenisation and assert national identity in the face of political pressure.

Despite these efforts, challenges remain. The mass production of textiles using digital printing has undercut the painstaking labour of traditional weavers. Moreover, issues of cultural appropriation have become more prominent. When ceremonial designs are lifted from their contexts and commercialised without acknowledgement or reciprocity, communities risk losing not only income, but sovereignty over their cultural heritage.

At the same time, traditional textiles are finding renewed relevance in political, academic, and artistic spaces. Museums around the world—from the Victoria and Albert Museum in London to the Textile Museum in Jakarta—are increasingly dedicating exhibitions to indigenous weaving traditions. These platforms not only showcase the technical mastery behind the cloths but also explore their historical and cultural contexts. Textile scholars have begun to advocate for recognising fabrics as historical documents in their own right—repositories of encoded memory and political narrative.

In contemporary diplomacy, garments crafted from traditional textiles continue to function as soft power tools. Heads of state exchange woven gifts, designers represent their nations in global fashion forums, and cultural festivals increasingly centre traditional cloth as a core element of national branding. What was once worn solely within the confines of courts and rituals now circulates through airports, catwalks, and digital feeds.

Yet perhaps the greatest strength of these textiles lies in their adaptability. They have survived war, displacement, and commodification, not as static relics but as evolving expressions of cultural vitality. Each knot, dye, and motif carries with it the labour, worldview, and voice of its maker. To wear, weave, or study such cloth is not merely to admire its beauty but to participate in an intergenerational dialogue that transcends borders and centuries.

In an age of fast fashion and fleeting trends, traditional textiles offer a counter-narrative—one that values time, symbolism, and collective memory. They remind us that power can be soft yet enduring, encoded not in declarations or stone but in threads that continue to hold communities together.