The Voice in the Wool

Today, the felt-making traditions of the Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, and other related peoples are a continuation of this ancient practice, which is now at least 3,000 years old. Although the exact moment when Kazakhs began producing felt remains unknown, the continuity of their craft speaks to a deep and enduring cultural legacy.

In traditional societies, it was normal for any occupation, especially one as significant as felting, to have its own mythology, a wide complex of beliefs and symbolic meanings. Indeed, this subject has long intrigued researchers but remains underexplored in academic literature. It’s easy to find both scholarly and popular materials about felt-making techniques, the types of felt and its uses, and characteristic patterns, but there is almost nothing about how the practice was spiritually or mythologically understood. Only one ritual related to felting is described in Kazakh ethnographic sources: kempirdiñ jağın bailau (meaning ‘binding the old woman’s jaw’ in Kazakh).

The ritual unfolds like this: during the shearing of the sheep and the beating of the wool (jün sabau), the initial stages of felt-making (kiiz basu) would begin. At this point, it was essential that no wind stirred. Before the work began, participants—nearly always women—were warned: ‘Söylemeñder, söyleseñder jel soğyp, jün uşady’ (Don’t talk, or the wind will blow and scatter the wool.).

This demand for silence is not unique to felt-making. In Kazakh traditions, silence accompanies sacred acts—whether raising the shañyraq (the crown of the yurt) or forging metal and doing blacksmith’s work. Despite this, if the wind did rise, a young boy would be called upon to perform a special ritual. He would tie two stalks (or a bundle) of shi grass (a species of achnatherum) together with wool and shout ‘Kempirdiñ jağın bailadım!’ (‘I’ve bound the old woman’s jaw!’) This phrase reflects an ancient belief held by our ancestors—that the wind was not simply a natural force but a sentient one. If you tied her jaw, she could no longer blow—and would be silenced.

This belief in the wind as a living force shows us just how deeply spiritual meaning was woven into everyday life in the steppe, especially in practices like felt-making. What might seem like simple household work was, in fact, connected to ancient rituals and mythologies that shaped the nomadic worldview.

In Islamic mythology, the patron of the wind was considered to be the saint Mirkaidar (or Mirkhaidar). Kümis Äbdiqyzy Qosbai, a master felt-maker from the village of Shetpe in the Mangystau region, has shared a vivid memory during a visual anthropology expedition led by the Serikbol Qondybai Museum of Mythology, recounting how artisans would appeal specifically to Mirkaidar when calm weather was needed for working with wool, with the words: ‘Jeldiñ pirі Mіrqaidar, özіñ saqtai gör’ (‘Lord of the wind, Mirkaidar, protect us’).

According to Qosbai, it was also customary to tie coins—always in multiples of seven (7 tiyn, 70 tenge, etc.)—into the corner of a scarf, which was then tied to a pole near the house. The scarf fluttering in the wind was evidently seen as an offering to the spirit of the wind. Museum director Rima Berdieva has confirmed this practice, though, according to her, to ensure good weather, a white scarf with coins tied in it would be fastened to the doorframe next to a protective charm—such as a ram’s radial bone—but in such a way that it remained inconspicuous.

To better understand these beliefs and rituals, one must first know how the felt-making process works:

• In autumn, before shearing, sheep are bathed in a river or pond (qoi-qozylardy toğytu). Once they are dry, they are shorn (qyrqu), and the wool is simultaneously sorted by color and quality.

• The wool is then beaten (jün sabau) to remove dirt and loosen clumps. In fact, different stages of the process involve distinct techniques of working with rods (sabau).

• The fluffed wool is laid out in an even layer on a shige salu (reed mat), and then hot, salted water is sprinkled on it. At this point, a pattern made from wool of another color or dyed wool may be laid on top. The mat with the wool is carefully rolled up, and this ‘filled roll’ is tied with rope.

• The rolled-up mat-and-wool bundle is then worked vigorously on the ground. This involves rolling it back and forth while pulling the rope from both ends—a process called terbetu. It is also kicked and kneaded, known as domalatyp tebu. This intense physical effort, which can last for at least three hours, helps the wool fibers bind tightly together, gradually transforming the loose wool into a dense, non-woven fabric.

• The roll is unwrapped, and the not-yet-fully-formed felt is rewrapped without the mat, sprinkled with hot water, and covered and steamed (bulau).

• The felt roll is then pressed and rolled using the forearms (bilekteu), pressed with hands, trampled, tugged, lifted, tossed (qarpu), and stretched.

• After drying, the felt becomes somewhat loose again, so it is ‘boiled’ once more with hot water (pісіru) and then rolled again.

The process of making felt, both in technique and terminology, resembles kneading dough. At a deeper level, it reflects the care given to a living being, such as an infant. For example, the term pісіru, meaning ‘to boil, is not only used for cooking. In Kazakh tradition, bathing a baby in salted water is also called pісіru. Similarly, the felt is rocked (terbetu), and ‘massaged’ with a tenderness that evokes looking after a baby, revealing how felt-making is more than a craft.

Kümis Äbdiqyzy Qosbai explains that if, for some reason, the wool is laid out on a mat indoors and then the roll is taken outside to be processed further, it is sprinkled with a milk-based drink. In Kazakh culture, both today and in the past, milk and dairy products were sacred and would never be spilled carelessly. Milk wasn’t just nourishment; it held symbolic power. For example, if a snake crawled into the house, a milk-based drink was poured on its head, in the belief that after such an offering, the snake would leave without harming anyone. This ritual was called aq quyyp shyǵaru (meaning ‘to drive away by pouring a milk drink’). Milk could also be symbolically spilled to stop a fire in the steppe or forestiKazakh Traditional System of Ethnographic Categories, Concepts, and Terms. Encyclopedia. — Almaty: DPS, 2011.

In affluent yurts, newlyweds' yurts, and for important rituals, white felt—made from the wool of white sheep—was typically used. To achieve a particularly bright, pure whiteness, bone powder or white clay was sometimes added to the wool. According to Qosbai, dark felt ‘sets’ quickly and becomes dense without much effort, a quality described as tez barady. White felt, on the other hand, is more delicate: it turns out looser, compacts slowly, and requires more effort to make. As the old Kazakh saying went: ‘Qara kiizdi qarğasañ da barady’, which means ‘Black felt will set even if you curse it’.

White felt is more sensitive and much harder to craft, which may explain its role in ceremonial settings. For example, a khan was lifted on white felt so that the material could purify him, rid him of sinful thoughts, and prepare him to serve the people with integrity and devotion. However, white felt was also used to wrap the deceased. It was believed that a person is born pure and innocent, but makes mistakes throughout life. Before returning to the Creator, they must be clean again, and here too, the white felt would purify them. There was also a belief that such pre-made white felt protected the family members and could not be buried in the black earth.

Among the Kazakhs in China, this ancient custom of carrying out the deceased wrapped in white felt remains in practice. This thin, dense, snow-white felt, called taldyrma, is used for only this purpose. Every qandasiQandas (or qandastar in the plural) refers to ethnic Kazakhs living in diaspora communities, particularly in Mongolia and China, who maintain strong cultural ties to their Kazakh heritage while adapting to local influences. family owns such a felt—it is carefully preserved, stored under a stack of körpe (quilts), tied with an aq qur (white ribbon), and transported during migration. No one may step on it, lie on it, or cover themselves with it, especially not the young or newlyweds. Only in extreme cases is it permitted to fold the taldyrma and place it under someone’s head. It is used solely for family burials, to carry the deceased from the house, and is brought back from the cemetery afterward.

Additionally, the connection between felt and the world of deceased ancestors is reflected in another belief. If there was a death in the family, felt production would stop for an entire year. It was believed that otherwise, the felt would not be of good quality or would fail to become dense (bara almaidy). Thus, felt was seen as having a will of its own, sensitive to the master's state and to future events.

Special care was taken during the final processing of the felt, especially when finishing the edges. This stage was directed by a number of rules and beliefs, reflecting the sacred regard for the material. When rolling up the felt, the edges had to be even. If one edge stuck out, forming a conical protrusion, it was called a säukełe, the traditional bridal headdress, and was seen as a sign that one of the daughters in the household would soon get married.

Although the edges of the felt needed to be even, it was forbidden to trim them. A single touch of a blade was believed to weaken and loosen the entire fabric. Thus, to even out the edges, two stones, bricks, or flat wooden blocks were placed on either side of the rolled-up felt. It was then doused with hot water, which was considered sacred. While the felt was still warm and pliable, the bardağait movements were performed by hand. These resembled the process of bilekteu, or rolling with the wrists and forearms, but unlike bilekteu, pressure was applied using the outer edges of the palms. The term ‘bardağait’ comes from the expression ‘bar da qait’ (meaning ‘to go and return’). During this process, the edges of the felt were pressed and rubbed against the stones, bricks, or wooden blocks that had been set as boundaries. This made the edges even, dense, and strong.

During the process of koshmoval, a particular type of felt-making, one edge of the felt would sometimes stretch out or protrude to the side. But rather than see this as a flaw, people interpreted it positively, as a good omen: ‘This year our sheep will multiply, we will become wealthy; let’s straighten the stretched edge, roll it up, and gather the sheep left out on the outskirts.’ The uneven edge was then gently straightened and rolled back into place, restoring the felt’s balanced, symmetrical shape.

Across Central Asia, felt-making was a communal activity that was primarily carried out by women. When the girls and women of a family beat the wool, the resounding strikes of the sabau sticks echoed across the steppe. Upon hearing this sound, young women from neighboring homes were expected to come and help, and refusing to join in was frowned upon. There was a saying that captured this communal spirit: ‘Öreli kiizime kelmegeniñ, ölimime de kelmey-aq qoy’(‘If you didn’t come to help felt my wool, don’t bother coming to my funeral either’).

Across the steppe, wool was more than simply a material—it symbolized wealth and prosperity. As one old proverb puts it, ‘Toğız qabat torqadan toqtışağımnıñ terisi artyq’ (‘The pelt of my lamb is worth more than nine layers of fine silk’). Even a small tuft of lamb’s wool carried meaning. If someone saw it drifting in the wind, they might say, ‘Jelbirep dalada qaldıñ-au, turmysqa shyqpağan qyz qusap (‘You’re left fluttering on the steppe like a girl who never married’). Similarly, if a piece of lamb’s wool was found lying on the ground, one was obliged to bend down and pick it up, as leaving it behind was seen as disrespectful to the blessings it represented.

The best wool for making felt came from the küzem jüni (autumn shearing). In contrast, wool collected after the winter had often become matted and heavily soiled over course of the season, and had developed a dense undercoat called a jabağı jüni, making it difficult to use for felting. If it was absolutely necessary to use wool from the spring shearing, then, according to Kümis Äbdiqyzy Qosbai, in order to make it suitable for felting, this wool had to be finely cut with scissors after prolonged beating.

Each type of livestock wool had its own purpose. Camel wool, for example, was not used for felting, as it was too fluffy. Instead, it was used to make blankets, vests, and outer garments like the shekpen (a kind of long overcoat). Moreover, camel wool was considered sacred, and one was not allowed to step on it or use it for socks or insoles. Such taboos varied from region to region. Among the southern Kazakhs, for example, it is said that unmarried girls should not be given camel wool blankets, as the wool is believed to increase sexual desire. However, no such restriction exists in western Kazakhstan.

A special type of camel wool called shuda—taken from the humps, lower neck, and nape—is especially valued. It is extremely long (over 30 centimeters), incredibly strong, resistant to heat, cold, and moisture, and is often spun into the thread that is used to stitch felt. This wool is also believed to have healing properties: it is said to ‘draw out’ cold from the body, reduce swelling, and aid in healing broken limbs.

In traditional culture, each craft usually had its own divine patron, and later, during the Islamic period, its own saint, who was invoked to bless and guide the work. For example, when a midwife delivered a baby, she would say: ‘Meniñ qolym emes, ananyñ qoly’ (‘These are not my hands, but the hands of Mother Umai’). This phrase conveyed deep respect for Umai, the ancient Turkic goddess of fertility and childbirth, whose presence was believed to bring safety and success while delivering a child.

When asked whether felt-making has its own patron, Qosbai responded that for each person, their mother is their protector. That’s why, before beginning her work, the felt-maker always says, ‘These are not my hands, but my mother’s hands.’

This sentiment is echoed in stories from various qandas, ethnic Kazakh women who have grown up in China. Altyngül Imanmädiqyzy from China’s Ili region recalls a tradition: when felt, wrapped in the shi grass and sprinkled with water, is brought outside for further processing, the elders warn that women should not lift the bundle. Only men are allowed to carry it out, just as only men carry the body of the deceased during funerals.

When Kazakh women made a length of felt, they weren’t just creating a warm, cozy, and beautiful world for their families and kin. They were engaging in a mystical interaction with the elements and with natural materials, imagining and creating a flourishing future alongside them. These preserved fragments of ancient knowledge offer a glimpse into the belief systems that once tied into the sacred art of felt-making.

For Kazakhs, felt is thus a kind of animate companion, a sacred intermediary between life and death, between the human and the spirit worlds. The rituals, beliefs, and expressions associated with it reveal a mythological cosmos in which every movement of the hand had meaning, and every fiber of wool carried the voices of the ancestors. These practices, still remembered today, offer a powerful glimpse into the sacred worldview once embedded in every layer of felt.