Venturing into the mountains of New Taipei’s Wulai District from neighboring Xindian District, we enter the domain of the Atayal people. Known for its steamy hot springs and spectacular waterfalls, Wulai is blessed with an abundance of natural resources. The Japanese colonial era witnessed its early development, and the post-World-War-II period saw its transformation into a tourist hotspot. Only 27 kilometers away from central Taipei, Wulai has evolved into the back garden of the Greater Taipei metropolitan area, with the popular Yun Hsien Resort, the sightseeing trains on the former logging railway, and the characterful Old Street ever beckoning.

Indigenous societies used to be organized according to strictly defined gender roles. Many indigenous groups in Taiwan adhered to the norms and taboos surrounding gender-­based divisions of labor, with men going out to hunt, and women devoting themselves to weaving. Atayal women are especially famous for their weaving skills, which are traditionally passed down from mothers to daughters. The patterns on Atayal garments often comprise diamond shapes on the front, and more intricate designs on the back. Diamond shapes, conventionally interpreted as the eyes of ancestral spirits, symbolize ancestral blessings. However, because Wulai became a tourist attraction quite early, many local women worked outside the home. As a result, the rich Atayal culture of weaving was fast disappearing.

Cultural revival

“Wulai is so close to Taipei. Business and job opportunities in Wulai in food service, retail and entertainment have proliferated. Clothes are easy to come by, too. So who would want to be a weaver?” says Lin Meifeng, former chairwoman of the Wulai Association of Indigenous Weavers (WAIW). Gao Qiu­mei, another former chair of the association, says she never used to see her fellow Atayal wearing traditional tribal garments.

In the wake of the indigenous cultural revival of the 1980s, the Wulai District Office began to offer home economics classes in 1996, inviting old weavers to teach. Only then did local women start to reconnect with this ancient craft and realize that it was in danger of disappearing forever. Having completed their classes, they decided to keep up with each other regularly. They founded the WAIW with a view to continuing to improve their weaving skills and promoting the Atayal tradition of weaving.

Atayal weavers traditionally use horizontal backstrap looms. The weaving process begins with warping. The weaver sits on the floor with the strap fitted around her waist and her feet stretched out against the warp beam to sustain the tension of the warp threads. In her hands she holds the shuttle, and a pickup stick for creating decorative patterns. Hunching one’s back in this way for lengthy periods can easily lead to physical injuries. Former WAIW chair Sayun Yuraw says: “Traditional backstrap weaving is such hard work that the majority of people don’t want to learn it now.”
 

Indefatigable learners

Nevertheless, the district office’s weaving workshops did attract many Atayal women. Sayun remembers that the attendees had to cobble together makeshift looms from thick pieces of wood. They learned everything from scratch, starting with the most difficult tasks of warping and picking up threads on the loom.

The Atayal are the most widely distributed of Taiwan’s indigenous peoples. The workshop attendees often drove together to Atayal settlements scattered across Northern and Central Taiwan for field research, as well as to the APC Center in Taichung—a training institution set up by the Council of Indigenous Peoples—for classes. Gao Qiumei tells us that the women were so keen to learn the weaving traditions practiced by all four of Taiwan’s Atayal groups that they could spend several days and nights on end weaving without feeling tired.

They also attended a teacher training program focusing on the indigenous crafts of weaving, dyeing, and embroidery in the Department of Textiles and Clothing at Fu Jen Catholic University (FJCU). There they refined their weaving skills and learned to analyze and chart patterns. Lin Meifeng shows us a pile of graph paper on which she has drawn various patterns, ­accompanied by notes on how to weave them. For example, for a cape decorated with classic Atayal diamond patterns, Lin has written “ramie yarn; 10/3; one up, three down.” She says with a smile that these are codes that only weavers under­stand.

Traditional indigenous cultures are known to be transmitted through oral communication; art forms such as weaving and garment making are no exception. Showing us a traditional Atayal garment, Lin explains why the patterns on Atayal clothes are more exuberant on the back than on the front. When they used to go out on headhunting expeditions, the Atayal were afraid of being followed by ghosts and other spirits. The anthropomorphic patterns on the back of their clothes were thought to have the power to ward off malevolent forces.

The weavers have also studied the artifacts donated to the Wulai Atayal Museum by the late local historian Gao Maoyuan, along with those in the collection of the Museum of Anthropology at National Taiwan University. From these objects they have found that the “XOXO” pattern—which symbolizes solidarity between men and women, and the prosperity and perpetuity of families—actually belongs to the Taranan subgroup of the Atayal.

Three decades have elapsed since the Atayal in Wulai embarked on a revival of their weaving culture. The women started from ground zero, having never seen anyone wearing traditional Atayal costumes before. They have since become expert weavers and are devoted to promoting the immemorial traditions they have inherited. No longer an exclusively female craft passed down from mothers to daughters, weaving has also crossed gender boundaries. If men want to learn, the women are happy to teach them.

Teaching male weavers

Gao Fu is an Atayal man who has defied gender conventions and committed himself to mastering the traditional craft of weaving. In fact he is one of the few men in Wulai who can weave. He works as a guide at the Wulai Atayal Museum and feels very strongly about the disappearance of indigenous cultures. “Our descendants shouldn’t have to turn to Google or YouTube to learn that the Atayal have their own weaving culture!” he says.

Gao’s mother is ethnic Chinese. As nobody in his family could teach him how to weave, he enrolled in a workshop five years ago, where he learned to use a backstrap loom—the hardest form of traditional Atayal weaving. Gao’s father frowned upon his new avocation at first. It was thanks to the support of his elder siblings that Gao eventually gained his father’s approval.

During our visit, Gao arrives with his backstrap loom to seek help. He sits on the floor and stretches out his legs to operate the loom. Holding the cloth beam and the heddle rod, he tries to push the shuttle through the warp threads, but it meets with some resistance. Sayun Yuraw at once identifies the problem: the resistance comes from the fluff attached to the weft thread. She suggests that Gao remove the fluff carefully or return to the warping process before carrying on with weaving.
 

Rukai weaver Peng Chunlin

Traditionally, weaving and embroidery are also womanly pursuits for the Rukai, another of Taiwan’s indigenous peoples. In days of yore, it was said that if a Rukai man tried his hand at weaving or embrodery, he would return empty-handed from his hunting expeditions. Like Gao Fu, Rukai craftsman Peng Chunlin has kicked against tribal gender conventions and established himself as a staunch champion of his people’s crafts of weaving and embroidery.

Peng has a workshop in Talamakau (Chinese name: Qingye), a Rukai village located on the northern edge of Pingtung County’s Sandimen Township, where he displays stunningly beautiful works—bags, bolster pillows, clothes, and accessories—inspired by Rukai butterfly patterns and hand tattoos.

Peng’s mother passed away when he was little, and he was brought up by his grandmother Peng Yumei, an eminent Rukai weaver. Peng also came under the influence of an aunt who was a skillful embroiderer. These early experiences sparked an interest in weaving and embroidery. He later came up with the idea of using traditional Rukai cross-stitch to design hair clips, and sold these from a streetside stall. There, by a stroke of luck, he met an admirer who suggested he should enter craft competitions. It was this new sense of mission that eventually helped launch his creative career in weaving and embroidery.

With many craft awards under his belt, Peng went to the Department of Textiles and Clothing at FJCU to further develop his skills and to qualify as a teacher of indigenous weaving, dyeing, and embroidery. He was the only male student in his class. Most of the instructors who taught him design, however, were men. “They told me that talent was more important than gender. This was a moment of enlightenment for me. I gradually shook off that gender consciousness which hampered one’s work,” Peng says.

Gaining recognition

Having completed his course, Peng returned to his village to teach weaving and embroidery to a class of 15 women. That was when the real challenge began. At first, when his relatives and friends asked about his work, he described himself as a “craftsman,” rather than as a “weaver” or “embroiderer.” However, word traveled fast in the close-knit community. Within a fortnight, everyone knew that Peng was offering weaving and embroidery lessons. Some praised his skills, design sensibilities, and excellent command of textiles. His grandmother Peng Yumei, walking with a stick at the time, even visited his classroom. “She examined each student’s textiles and other creations, and when she was about to leave, she told them: ‘My grandson is a better weaver than I am. He can already manage patterns that are beyond my ability to weave.’”

When Peng’s grandmother was in her nineties, she presented him with a length of cloth that she had woven herself. “Grandmother produced a piece of fabric from a box and told me: ‘Throughout our lives, we Rukai women have to weave a length of cloth for everyone in our families, to use as a burial shroud when they die. Of all my grandchildren, only you like weaving. So I’m giving you this piece of cloth.’” At that moment, Peng realized that his grandmother had fully recognized his skills, and he set about documenting her weaving patterns and techniques.

Peng’s father was skeptical at first. While looking at one of his son’s award-winning works, he asked: “What can you do with weaving?” But he added: “This is beautiful!” And then, at a gathering, in response to someone’s remark that “Peng Chunlin in your village is an amazing weaver,” his father exclaimed: “That’s my son!” Peng knew that he had at last obtained his father’s approval.
 

Local industry

More than half of the women in Talamakau have attended lessons given by Peng, who has successfully turned weaving into a local industry. He encourages his students to submit entries to exhibitions, and they work together to promote and explore the commercial potential of textiles. Weaving has become an economic mainstay for some of his students’ families. We also see local men helping their wives embroider. The gender conventions that used to surround indigenous art and craft are gradually disintegrating.

Peng has overcome the constraints of traditional gender norms to become a weaving instructor respected by all in his village. As a Rukai craftsman, he feels a sense of duty toward his people. “I began watching my grandmother weave when I was a child, and I have preserved her skills, preventing them from vanishing for good. I am very proud of this.” He continues: “I am a son of the Rukai people and should do things that benefit the Rukai. I like weaving. That’s a lifelong journey for me.”

It is talent that determines success in weaving and embroidery. By jettisoning traditional gender restrictions, we may help ensure the survival of timeless indigenous crafts.

For more pictures, please click 《Indigenous Craft Revival: Atayal and Rukai Weavers》