Dear Editors at CounterPunch,
I am writing in response to the article “Let’s Not Tatreez: Normalisation in the Age of Neoliberal Depoliticisation” by Omar Joseph Nasser-Khoury, published on August 28, 2020. I am the founder, author, and artist of Tatreez & Tea. While the article critiques the work of Jordan Nassar, the website for my artistic practice “Tatreez & Tea” was linked in the paragraph excerpted below:
The use of discrete and unnecessary transliterated terms like tatreez, which literally means embroidery in Arabic, betrays the tendency within capitalism to fragment, classify and mystify in a drive towards commodification. It also reflects the trend, especially amongst Palestinian diaspora practitioners who work with Palestinian embroidery and the pressure they face to reconfigure their own culture so that it might suit the taste of the liberal metropolitan elites that consume these sterilised interpretations. This reified and discursive term conveniently carves out a new depoliticised and exclusive field out of an already long-established tradition by expunging undesirable and unmarketable aspects of Palestine and Palestinians from the embroidery.
I fundamentally disagree with the premise of Nasser-Khoury’s argument that the use of the term “tatreez” is a form of capitalist commodification. I use “tatreez” as a general term referencing Palestinian embroidery because, as a Palestinian in the diaspora, I have not learned the cross-stitch as a simple form of “embroidery.” Rather, what I learned from my mother was “tatreez,” which is at once an artistic practice, a mode of storytelling, a form of political claim-making, and a manifestation of the liveliness, dynamism, and reliance of Palestinian culture in the face of settler-colonial erasure.
I refuse to translate “tatreez” into English for several reasons. Firstly, what I learned from my mother was always tatreez, with lessons delivered in my mother’s native Arabic. And I have endeavored to maintain these linguistic origins to emphasize my connections to Palestine, its language and its people. Furthermore, my refusal to literally translate “tatreez” is a political and ethical commitment to the aspirations of the Palestinian people fighting for liberation and freedom. To simply translate “Tatreez & Tea” to “Embroidery & Tea” risks stripping my practice of this political essence. Indeed, to translate “tatreez” as “embroidery” puts it far more at risk of the sort of capitalist commodification Nasser-Khoury warns of—reducing tatreez to just another form of ethnic embroidery consumed by “liberal metropolitan elites”.
Furthermore, I have not, as Nasser-Khoury implies, instrumentalized my Palestinian identity for profit. Nor have I presented a sterilized interpretation of this art form in order to commodify it and sell it to Westerners. Had Nasser-Khoury taken a moment to investigate my work before belittling and mischaracterizing my mission to preserve Palestinian embroidery traditions in the diaspora as a mere “trend”, he would have known that I am a scholar and researcher in art history. Nasser-Khoury would also have realized that most of my students are Palestinians, Arabs and Palestinian allies who work in solidarity with Palestinian liberation and freedom. And he would have seen that my classes and research are part of a broader effort to ensure that Palestinian artistry and traditions are not erased from the art history books or appropriated by Zionist artists and designers.
I began my Instagram account @tatreezandtea in 2016 to share my love for Palestinian tatreez and promote the work of my mother, who had spent the last 40 years teaching this art form in the US with no real attention or financial award. There was no “trend” to tatreez then. It was, and still is, an endangered art form -- and I set out to keep this artistic tradition, which was passed down from my Palestinian mother and grandmother, alive. My mission is to share this sacred tradition -- by combining art history, scholarly research, practical skills, and knowledge -- to a diaspora community that has long felt detached, dislocated, and dispossessed from their homeland and, sometimes, their identity.
In each class I teach, I ensure that the meanings of each motif and their art historical context are provided to students. There is no reconfiguration of culture or identity to make it more palatable -- on the contrary, I oftentimes select motifs from depopulated villages of 1948 to ensure that we stitch in commemoration and honor of our Palestinian ancestors. For instance, in my class where I teach students how to implement tatreez on their traditional Palestinian keffiyeh, we focus on a motif from Lifta. Lifta was violently depopulated in 1948 and has largely been abandoned since the creation of Israel.
My book, Tatreez & Tea is a self-published oral history documentation project, funded by the Brooklyn Arts Council that explores the meaning, stories, and traditions of Palestinian embroidery taught to me by my mother, award-winning artist, Feryal Abbasi-Ghnaim. My mother and father immigrated to the US in 1979, and my mother, who is a refugee of al-Nakba, began teaching tatreez locally to cope with the challenges she faced as an exile from her homeland and the prejudice she experienced as a Muslim immigrant in the United States. My sisters and I grew up assisting in the promotion of this art form in events my mother organized around the US.
We had trash thrown at us walking to and from school, we were threatened and called names for being Palestinian, I had gum spit in my hair when my mother had us wear our tatreez to school for class pictures, and I was shoved down two flights of cement stairs (face-first) when I was 6 years old because my mother had an accent. Despite the discrimination we experienced growing up in America, my mother made it her life’s purpose to teach us tatreez when my sisters and I were each as young as two years old. We practiced tatreez as a family to heal from our trauma. My life’s work, and my mother’s life’s work, cannot be disparaged as a mere trend. Just because I don’t live in Palestine or under occupation does not mean that I have diluted my identity and does not delegitimize my experiences, my fight or my struggle.
Today, there are dozens of tatreez accounts on social media, and while it may seem “trendy” in 2020 -- I am proud that I had a hand in making it so. I have dedicated my life to ensuring that the traditional art form is practiced, not just consumed. I ensure that tatreez is passed down to the next generation through scholarly research, and I take the lead in educating students on how to be competent allies in our fight for liberation. This is not lucrative work, and I am not ashamed to say that I am fairly compensated for my time and labor to teach, educate, and further my research.
Nasser-Khoury’s hyper-critical reception and reference of Tatreez & Tea as a “trend” is not just wrong, it is insulting. He has not attended my classes or lectures, he has never spoken to me or my mother, and he can be sure that my work is in no way complicit in the normalization of colonialism and oppression of my people. He failed to recognize, in his analysis, the “tea” portion of Tatreez & Tea. If he had bothered to read my book, he would know that tea is symbolic of the storytelling traditions in Palestinian embroidery. I use the symbolism of tea to elevate the narratives of Palestinian refugee women, including my mother, who use tatreez as a language — one that has long been endangered in the diaspora.
Tatreez is my identity. Tatreez is my home. Tatreez is my family.
The thousands of students I have taught over the past six years, and that my mother has taught over the decades, many of which are Palestinians in diaspora seeking connection and community can vouch for the important work we do in each and every class -- in each and every stitch -- to continue fighting for Palestinian justice, freedom and self-determination.
Why don’t you take a class and see for yourself?
In solidarity,
Wafa Ghnaim
Founder, Tatreez & Tea