The girls of the Tamahú loom

1In a hidden corner among the innumerable mountains of the Tamahú municipality, there are some women with the desire and strength to revive an entire community.

They grew up watching their mothers' hands between colored threads and today they are the ones who teach the tradition to the smallest of this Guatemalan village.

So it has always been.

And so they want it to remain.

But the cpvid-19 crisis has reduced their sales to a minimum and many are reconsidering to continue with this ancestral work.

Doña Rosa María Koimaz, the matriarch of this network of weavers, does not give up: "It is time to find a way to sell again."

Jaime Villanueva

2Until now, this task has been a “women's thing”.

The men of the village tend to dedicate themselves to agriculture, mainly milpa (corn) and beans, the basis of the daily menu of the Central American country.

"We do everything else," the women who approach Koimaz's house, a frequent meeting point, summarize with laughter.

They are responsible for the care of the children and the home, they take care of the meals and, in their spare time, they knit.

Jaime Villanueva

3Although there are many garments that they make, the huipiles –or güipiles– are the star piece.

This kind of rectilinear overshirt, which in Nahuatl means "my cover", is typical of the indigenous communities of Guatemala.

Although it bears a lot of similarity with the indigenous costumes of other areas of Central America, each huipil tells the story of its people.

Sometimes they even narrate tales and fables.

The predominant embroidery in this village are flowers, butterflies and other animals.

"What we see", clarifies one of the most veteran.

The youngest of this group has just turned 18 and the most experienced are already turning 60. “We are all in this,” they settle.

Jaime Villanueva

4The technique is thorough.

It takes about a month to embroider one, depending on the complexity of the design.

Koimaz pulls up a stool, sits down, and unrolls a kind of parchment with a half-made huipil.

Then, he fixes his eyes on the rows of threads that hang from both wooden sticks - inherited from each other - and the magic begins.

His expert fingers intersperse gray and black between white, from one side to the other.

It is fast.

When it is satisfied, it drags from above one of the rods that presses everything.

And start over.

The task, which requires precision and care, seems to cost you nothing.

In the process, stories, regrets, and wishes of several generations creep in;

is the soundtrack of these women who embroider together.

5 Before the pandemic broke out, they were sold between 1,000 and 1,300 quetzals (110 to 140 euros) in the Tamahú market.

There was always someone who needed a new huipil or a tourist who wanted to take home a real handicraft 'made in' Guatemala.

The confinement put an end to street vending - in a country where 70% of jobs are informal, according to the System of National Accounts (SNA) - and the arrival of tourists.

These mothers were the main victims.

And, with them, their children.

6 "We have them of all prices," blurts out one of the women.

"Show him the one with the fewest butterflies," adds another.

They have the blood of businessmen.

And the need sharpens the skill.

They take out of a black plastic bag some finished fabrics that will be cut to size and put them on top of each other.

"These are cheaper, right?", Says Mrs. Florinda Chichcal.

A young woman proudly points to a colorful garment.

"That's the one I did," she says shyly as she jumps to rock the baby she is carrying on her back.

He is about to fall asleep in one of the fabrics his mother embroidered and her tired eyes reveal that it is not an easy task.

7Gabi, however, does not want to miss the women's meeting.

He is less than a year old and listens to the others as if he understands them.

Without taking his huge black eyes away.

She is the second daughter of Vilma Yolanda Xolmay, a young woman of just 23 years old, who has spent half her life weaving.

“I started to move between the strings at the same age as her,” she jokes, “I hope I can dedicate myself to this too, but there is less and less business.

It is increasingly difficult for us to sell ”.

8This difficulty is not the only problem they have faced.

During the pandemic, a group of alleged businessmen approached this community who promised to sell their products in the capital.

They were happy and gave everything they had knitted until then.

At least fifty huipiles.

These men never came back with the money.

"We no longer trust anyone," says Mirian Chá.

This 19-year-old craftswoman has considered opening an Instagram or Facebook account to order online, but she fears that it will not work.

The connection is not very stable and not all women have telephones.

In the image, Lidia Isabel Chaj, 28, and Vilma Yolanda Xolmay, show the garments of 600 and 200 quetzals (65 and 21 euros), respectively.

9Concepción Popcux (right), 28, learned to knit with her sister-in-law.

He has barely three years of experience and has mastered the technique to perfection.

The secret of this tradition is the transmission between women.

The huipil he is holding is sold for 1,200 quetzals (130 euros) and it took him three weeks to finish.

Marcela Antonia Cha Sam (left), 32 years old, admits that she is proud to dedicate herself to this.

Although they regret having several fabrics ready that they cannot sell.

10The women of this indigenous Q'eqchi community do not stop arriving at the terrace of Koimaz.

The hostess brings out delicious bean and tomato sauce tamales and hot oatmeal drinks.

The few who wear masks, they quickly remove them to taste the dish.

The coronavirus does not appear in any of the conversations.

“Here we have only noticed it in the economy.

The disease has not reached the village ”, says Xolmay before the watchful eyes of little Gabi.

In the picture, Carmelina Tutsa and Elsa Cha Sam, both 23 years old.

11And how old are you, María Beatriz?

She is silent and blushes with embarrassment.

He does not remember.

"Thirty-three," a friend yells from behind.

They all laugh.

Years of age are not very important in this community.

So she takes her identity card out of her skirt and stands tall.

"That, 33", he assumes.

Another companion caresses the huipil and praises the sewing of Mrs. Cha's birds.

"It fit you very well," he tells her in Q'eqchi.

Here you can breathe the sisterhood that was never taught.

On the left, Angelica Berta Lidia Cha Sam, 27.

12Elvira Xol, 41, and Carlota Kim, 24, are other of the many girls at the loom to whom it seems that at some point Víctor Jara sang: “Slave of a timetable;

slave of a salary;

brown spinner, little butterfly… Loom worker ”.

They will return to their homes shortly to continue taking care of their home and will continue weaving.

Little will change in your routine.

They will embroider with hopes that they will be sold soon and with an eye on the generations to come and that, for now, are just girls who grow up among scraps, tangles and the resilience of a whole network of women.

Those that weave much more than huipiles.