In the remote hills of Lauri Gewog, where imported fabrics have long replaced traditional cloth-making, a handful of women continue to keep alive the ancient practice of weaving with nettle plants.
Among them is Therbum Zangmo from Sezor village, who spends her days harvesting the fibrous stinging nettle from nearby forests. After carefully boiling and processing the plants into yarn, she dyes the strands using natural pigments from wild herbs before weaving them into garments, including traditional ghos.
The work is arduous but rewarding. Zangmo earns about Nu 50,000 annually from her craft—enough to support her children’s schooling. “Our grandparents did this, and we are preserving it,” she explained. “I am not literate, so I have to do this. Through weaving, we can earn something to spend on our school-going children.”
She is not alone. Fellow villager Kesang Lhamo also carries on the tradition. “Earlier, many people did this. Now, only a few of us are continuing, as it provides some income. We even attended training on dyeing to improve our skills,” Lhamo said.
Despite their commitment, the craft faces an uncertain future. With cheaper, factory-made fabrics widely available, younger generations are reluctant to learn the painstaking process. “I was thinking of teaching this craft to my children,” Zangmo admitted, “but they are not interested. After cutting nettle plants from the forest, we have to boil them to make yarn. It is very difficult.”
For Lhamo, too, the lack of interest among youth is disheartening. “Children are not willing to even collect the nettle plants,” she said.
Still, for these women, weaving is about more than just survival. Each piece of cloth they create is a testament to cultural resilience. Their looms carry the story of a people and a heritage on the brink of disappearance.
As imported fabrics flood the market, the nettle weavers of Lauri Gewog stand as guardians of a fragile tradition—one that may endure only as long as their hands remain at the loom.
