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The Palm Frond Weaver
The journey wasn’t short, but I couldn’t complain. I remained silent until we reached the Saturday Market, the largest in the area. As we approached, her first and most crucial warning was never to let go of her hand, or else I would get lost.
/ answered
Whenever the holidays came, and I visited my grandmother, ‘Haboba’ Asha, I wasn’t interested in playing with other children, as girls my age usually did. Instead I loved watching her weave palm fronds. In our region, we used palm leaves or the fronds of the doum tree for weaving. Women from the River Nile State were famous for crafting various palm products, such as mats, trays, and baskets.
I observed my grandmother with great enthusiasm—from the moment she brought the raw materials from the market to the time she returned them for sale as finished products. I would wake up very early, before my mother or anyone else in the house noticed. If I was caught, I would be forbidden from going to the market with her. I moved quietly, put on the first thing I could find as quickly as possible, and waited for her at the door. I still remember her familiar, teasing smile as she held my hand in one of hers and carried the woven basket—called ‘guffa’ in our dialect—with the other.
The journey wasn’t short, but I couldn’t complain. I remained silent until we reached the Saturday Market, the largest in the area. As we approached, her first and most crucial warning was never to let go of her hand, or else I would get lost. She then led me to her usual customers, whom she knew well and who knew her. After completing her purchases, we returned home, usually by mid-morning. Then, she would prepare her workspace and arrange her tools.
Haboba Asha was famous for making prayer mats, traditional woven mats, and baskets. The process began by breaking off one sharp point of the frond to use as a sewing needle. The fronds were then soaked in water to make them pliable, preventing them from breaking during weaving. There was a dedicated room in my grandfather’s house for palm weaving. Before starting work, all the furniture was removed, and four wooden stakes were planted in the corners of the room. One end of the frond was tied to a stake, and she began weaving. I don’t remember exactly how the weaving was done, but I’ll never forget how I marveled at her skill and genius. It was a craft only she knew. I watched as her wrinkled hands moved swiftly, as if she were a young woman in her twenties. She never looked up unless she needed to wipe sweat from her forehead or take a sip of water. When she needed a break, she would sit under the shade with her children and grandchildren for a while before returning to complete what she had started. A full mat would eventually take shape.
No one knew what fate awaited each woven mat—whether it would be used as a house roof, a burial shroud, or a bed for a newlywed couple. These were matters left to destiny.
Sometimes, I would ask her to let me try making a simple braid from the fronds. At first, I struggled, but gradually, I mastered the skill. The most common item she made was the woven basket, guffa, as it was the easiest to make and in high demand at the market. She was always delighted when she received a large order, and she would call on her friends to share the work and the earnings—This was the beauty of communal cooperation. I remember clearly that she was one of those women who gave generously without hesitation.
Although my grandmother was not blessed with a daughter, she had vowed to make a special mat called ‘atnaba’ for every girl in her family who was about to get married. It was a colorful mat on which the bride would sit before her wedding, a gift from my grandmother to any bride in the family. The process of making a bridal mat differed from the regular ones. The fronds were dyed in multiple colors—usually red, black, yellow, and sometimes purple—before being woven. The edges were often decorated with silver or gold ribbons. Traditionally, the bridal mat was also used during a Sudanese wedding ritual called ‘ragis al-aroos’ (the bride’s dance), where the bride, after much practice, performed a dance on the decorated mat, a custom that has since changed.
I was particularly fascinated by how she made the ‘tabag’ (woven food covers) and ‘rayka’ (large storage baskets for bread and traditional Sudanese flatbreads like kisra and gorrasa). The process of making them was similar to that of mats and baskets. The fronds were soaked in water to soften them, then a long frond was selected and coiled in a spiral until the desired size was reached. The edges were then tightly stitched using coloured fronds, while the ‘rayka’ was usually left in its natural color.
The tabag is a truly national tool, used throughout Sudan, though it varies from region to region in size, color, and the type of frond used to make it. Over the years, I travelled across Sudan with Shorrti trips, and the journey “From the Nile to the Sea” was like a trip down memory lane and reminiscing about my grandmother and her craft. In Atbara, one of our stops that year, I found the baskets, mats, and prayer rugs that were once made in my grandmother’s room still in use among the people of the River Nile State.
I got a glimpse of what happened after we took my grandmother’s products to the market. The memory transported me back to the anticipation of market day. Unlike her regular market trips, selling her woven goods required more hands, and I would do everything possible to ensure I wasn’t denied the chance to go. On Saturday mornings, I would fly with excitement, knowing we would spend more time at the market than usual, trying to sell as many products as possible.
At the market, every seller had her designated spot—no one took another’s place. Each displayed her woven goods in her own unique way, persuading customers that hers were the best quality and most beautiful.
It’s not just the tabag; the entire craft of palm weaving—baskets, mats, trays, and more—is a widespread culture across Sudan, with variations from place to place, and weaving isn’t just a trade. I recall one of Shorrti’s trips to El Fasher, where, in line with one of Shorrti’s goals of supporting local products, we purchased a type of woven basket called ‘mandola’ which was thicker, more colorful, and woven differently than the baskets I knew from the River Nile State. Similarly, during another trip which included visits to New Halfa, Kassala, and Gedaref, I noticed a palm food cover called ‘shor’ used by the people of Halfa, and in Kassala, we found baskets called ‘beelib’ made by the Beja people.
Nothing in life is a coincidence—every step is part of God’s plan. My relationship with palm frond weaving began in my grandmother’s home, watching her craft and sell her products at the market. As I grew older and traveled across Sudan, I found palm weaving in every place I visited. Every time I encountered woven palm products, I was transported back to my childhood, my grandmother’s home, and the Saturday market.
Every place has a story.
Bonus content a documentary about the inventory of Shergania element in El Obied. It was shot as part of an intangible cultural heritage documentation project conducted by the Shaikan Museum in Obaid, which is trying to safeguard heritage within the displaced communities due to the war that erupted in 2023. © Amani Basheer, Shaikan Museum, ICH recording, Sherganiya, El Obeid, December 2024
Galley images from project collection.
Cover picture © Mallinson architects, Noura Museum, Nyala, Darfur
Whenever the holidays came, and I visited my grandmother, ‘Haboba’ Asha, I wasn’t interested in playing with other children, as girls my age usually did. Instead I loved watching her weave palm fronds. In our region, we used palm leaves or the fronds of the doum tree for weaving. Women from the River Nile State were famous for crafting various palm products, such as mats, trays, and baskets.
I observed my grandmother with great enthusiasm—from the moment she brought the raw materials from the market to the time she returned them for sale as finished products. I would wake up very early, before my mother or anyone else in the house noticed. If I was caught, I would be forbidden from going to the market with her. I moved quietly, put on the first thing I could find as quickly as possible, and waited for her at the door. I still remember her familiar, teasing smile as she held my hand in one of hers and carried the woven basket—called ‘guffa’ in our dialect—with the other.
The journey wasn’t short, but I couldn’t complain. I remained silent until we reached the Saturday Market, the largest in the area. As we approached, her first and most crucial warning was never to let go of her hand, or else I would get lost. She then led me to her usual customers, whom she knew well and who knew her. After completing her purchases, we returned home, usually by mid-morning. Then, she would prepare her workspace and arrange her tools.
Haboba Asha was famous for making prayer mats, traditional woven mats, and baskets. The process began by breaking off one sharp point of the frond to use as a sewing needle. The fronds were then soaked in water to make them pliable, preventing them from breaking during weaving. There was a dedicated room in my grandfather’s house for palm weaving. Before starting work, all the furniture was removed, and four wooden stakes were planted in the corners of the room. One end of the frond was tied to a stake, and she began weaving. I don’t remember exactly how the weaving was done, but I’ll never forget how I marveled at her skill and genius. It was a craft only she knew. I watched as her wrinkled hands moved swiftly, as if she were a young woman in her twenties. She never looked up unless she needed to wipe sweat from her forehead or take a sip of water. When she needed a break, she would sit under the shade with her children and grandchildren for a while before returning to complete what she had started. A full mat would eventually take shape.
No one knew what fate awaited each woven mat—whether it would be used as a house roof, a burial shroud, or a bed for a newlywed couple. These were matters left to destiny.
Sometimes, I would ask her to let me try making a simple braid from the fronds. At first, I struggled, but gradually, I mastered the skill. The most common item she made was the woven basket, guffa, as it was the easiest to make and in high demand at the market. She was always delighted when she received a large order, and she would call on her friends to share the work and the earnings—This was the beauty of communal cooperation. I remember clearly that she was one of those women who gave generously without hesitation.
Although my grandmother was not blessed with a daughter, she had vowed to make a special mat called ‘atnaba’ for every girl in her family who was about to get married. It was a colorful mat on which the bride would sit before her wedding, a gift from my grandmother to any bride in the family. The process of making a bridal mat differed from the regular ones. The fronds were dyed in multiple colors—usually red, black, yellow, and sometimes purple—before being woven. The edges were often decorated with silver or gold ribbons. Traditionally, the bridal mat was also used during a Sudanese wedding ritual called ‘ragis al-aroos’ (the bride’s dance), where the bride, after much practice, performed a dance on the decorated mat, a custom that has since changed.
I was particularly fascinated by how she made the ‘tabag’ (woven food covers) and ‘rayka’ (large storage baskets for bread and traditional Sudanese flatbreads like kisra and gorrasa). The process of making them was similar to that of mats and baskets. The fronds were soaked in water to soften them, then a long frond was selected and coiled in a spiral until the desired size was reached. The edges were then tightly stitched using coloured fronds, while the ‘rayka’ was usually left in its natural color.
The tabag is a truly national tool, used throughout Sudan, though it varies from region to region in size, color, and the type of frond used to make it. Over the years, I travelled across Sudan with Shorrti trips, and the journey “From the Nile to the Sea” was like a trip down memory lane and reminiscing about my grandmother and her craft. In Atbara, one of our stops that year, I found the baskets, mats, and prayer rugs that were once made in my grandmother’s room still in use among the people of the River Nile State.
I got a glimpse of what happened after we took my grandmother’s products to the market. The memory transported me back to the anticipation of market day. Unlike her regular market trips, selling her woven goods required more hands, and I would do everything possible to ensure I wasn’t denied the chance to go. On Saturday mornings, I would fly with excitement, knowing we would spend more time at the market than usual, trying to sell as many products as possible.
At the market, every seller had her designated spot—no one took another’s place. Each displayed her woven goods in her own unique way, persuading customers that hers were the best quality and most beautiful.
It’s not just the tabag; the entire craft of palm weaving—baskets, mats, trays, and more—is a widespread culture across Sudan, with variations from place to place, and weaving isn’t just a trade. I recall one of Shorrti’s trips to El Fasher, where, in line with one of Shorrti’s goals of supporting local products, we purchased a type of woven basket called ‘mandola’ which was thicker, more colorful, and woven differently than the baskets I knew from the River Nile State. Similarly, during another trip which included visits to New Halfa, Kassala, and Gedaref, I noticed a palm food cover called ‘shor’ used by the people of Halfa, and in Kassala, we found baskets called ‘beelib’ made by the Beja people.
Nothing in life is a coincidence—every step is part of God’s plan. My relationship with palm frond weaving began in my grandmother’s home, watching her craft and sell her products at the market. As I grew older and traveled across Sudan, I found palm weaving in every place I visited. Every time I encountered woven palm products, I was transported back to my childhood, my grandmother’s home, and the Saturday market.
Every place has a story.
Bonus content a documentary about the inventory of Shergania element in El Obied. It was shot as part of an intangible cultural heritage documentation project conducted by the Shaikan Museum in Obaid, which is trying to safeguard heritage within the displaced communities due to the war that erupted in 2023. © Amani Basheer, Shaikan Museum, ICH recording, Sherganiya, El Obeid, December 2024
Galley images from project collection.
Cover picture © Mallinson architects, Noura Museum, Nyala, Darfur
