By Lê Việt Dũng

In the rolling hills of the Central Highlands province of Lâm Đồng, the soft clatter of handlooms still echoes through wooden homes. For the Chil people, a branch of the larger Cơ Ho ethnic group, weaving is not just a skill — it is a sacred inheritance.

As modern life creeps into the highlands, bringing mass-produced clothes, synthetic dyes and fast fashion, the ancient craft of handloom weaving is quietly fading. The skill, once taught from mother to daughter, now survives in fewer and fewer hands.

In Đạ Long Commune (now part of Đam Rông 4 Commune), 80-year-old Cil K’Pop is among the last bearers of full traditional weaving knowledge. Her home is humble, her voice gentle, but her mission is fierce: to ensure her people do not forget.

"I was 12 when my mother and grandmother taught me to weave," she says, sitting beside a large wooden handloom. "Now I’ve taught my children and grandchildren, so our fire doesn’t go out."

Though well into her eighties, K’Pop still weaves daily and passes her skills on to younger women in the village. A long scarf takes her three days to complete; a shorter one, about a day and a half. She doesn't weave for profit, but for preservation of the craft.

"My dream is for future generations to remember our ancestors, to know where we come from," she says.

Strict taboos

Traditional Chil weaving begins not at the loom, but in the fields.

In the past, the Chil grew cotton themselves. After harvesting, the cotton was sun-dried for several days, then carefully processed: seeds were separated, the fibres fluffed using a bamboo bow, spun into thread with a spinning wheel, then dyed using natural materials gathered from nearby forests and rivers.

Leaves picked near streams were soaked until they decomposed, then mixed with ingredients like seashell ash, chilli seeds and roasted gourd seeds to create pigments. These natural dyes were then sun-dried, stored and used to colour the cotton yarn.

The resulting colours — deep reds, leafy greens, yellows and whites — were soft but rich, capable of withstanding years of wear.

When dyeing, weavers followed strict taboos: their hands had to be clean of pork grease (which would prevent the dye from sticking), the dye water had to be collected from a spring early in the morning before anyone else, and no outsiders, especially widows or first-time pregnant women, were allowed near the dyeing space. Otherwise, the dyed yarn was believed to turn white or lose its colour.

Today, however, very few families continue this full process. Instead, most buy coloured, industrial yarn from markets. It’s cheaper, faster and offers more colour options, but it bypasses the deep cultural rituals embedded in traditional methods.

The Chil loom itself is a piece of cultural engineering. It has seven main components, including a bamboo foot pedal to stretch the threads, a wooden blade used like a weaving knife and rattan sticks used to create patterns. The artisan must stretch their legs straight to operate the loom, weaving slowly by hand, one knot at a time — physical labour that demands patience and precision.

Even before weaving begins, the warping stage requires experienced hands. Coloured threads for patterns must be placed in exact positions alongside base threads, from formulas the weavers memorise, not written down. This step is so critical that only elder artisans like  K’Pop typically perform it.

Patterns emerge from the warp itself — no embroidery, no printing. They include triangles, zigzags, curved lines, dots and diamonds. Over 17 types of motifs are used, symbolizing animals, plants, household tools and abstract ideas.

Fabrics in daily life, ritual

Handloom weaving in Chil life is not just for fabrics — it carries spiritual and social significance.

During festivals, Chil people wear vibrantly patterned dresses and loincloths, often paired with handmade jewelry: beaded necklaces, bronze bangles, ivory or bamboo earrings. At naming ceremonies, families gift hand-woven cloths to newborns, wishing them health and growth.

Handloom fabrics also play roles in courtship and death. Before a groom can bring home his bride, her family must give the groom’s family a dowry that includes clothing and fabrics — these are non-negotiable symbols of respect.

When someone dies, they are wrapped in the family’s finest handwoven fabrics. Visitors to the wake bring their own cloth as offerings, along with rice wine, chickens or rice — especially if they wish to honour the deceased deeply.

Cil K’Phang, 44, is one of K’Pop’s daughters. She weaves part-time while tending coffee plants and sells her products for around VNĐ600,000 (US$23) to VNĐ800,000 ($30) apiece. It’s not a primary income, but it brings in about VNĐ3 million ($115) a month.

She doesn’t make fixed products, but works based on customer requests — scarves, tablecloths, headscarves. She’s teaching her daughter, too, though the girl hasn’t yet learned to complete a whole piece.

"About 20 women in our commune are learning to weave now," she says.

Yet as younger generations move toward modern jobs and lifestyles, even this modest revival struggles to keep pace. Many Chil women no longer wear self-woven skirts, instead opting for ready-made clothes from local markets. Traditional garments are now reserved mostly for weddings, church ceremonies or cultural performances.

Taboos, beliefs around weaving

The Chil people’s weaving culture is surrounded by spiritual taboos. Choosing the wrong day to begin planting cotton, such as one where a deer or monkey is heard, requires the farmer to turn back. Dreaming of banana clusters or fish signals good fortune; dreaming of death, nudity or breaking objects means work must be postponed.

If, while walking to the forest to gather wood to make a loom, a weaver encounters someone urinating, they must return home. If not, the loom they make may crack or break quickly.

Such beliefs, though fading, still shape how the most traditional weavers operate. The loom is not just a tool; it’s a gateway into a sacred relationship with the land, ancestors and fate.

According to a recent survey by the Lâm Đồng Department of Culture, Sports and Tourism, traditional handloom weaving in Đạ Long is teetering. Only about 30 families continue to weave, and most do so in their spare time. Just five master artisans in the commune still know the full traditional process.

Liêng Hót Ha Sép, vice chairman of Đạ Long Commune, says the provincial government has stepped in. A new weaving centre is under construction, where master artisans can work together and teach younger generations.

Plans are also underway to open sewing classes, allowing younger weavers to tailor cloth into garments.

"Right now, a skilled elder can finish a piece in two days," Ha Sép says. "Someone less experienced might take a week."

Weaving the future

Provincial officials believe artisans are the heart of cultural preservation. Trần Thanh Hoài, deputy director of Lâm Đồng’s Department of Culture, Sports and Tourism, says two key programmes are now in place: a weaving vocational scheme and community tourism projects that give weavers a market for their products.

"These policies help people earn a living from their craft," he says, "and inspire pride — knowing that their work helps preserve the values left by our ancestors."

In Đạ Long, every woven thread carries a story. A grandmother’s hand guiding her granddaughter, a pattern handed down from centuries past, a sacred cloth wrapped around a newborn or a departed elder: The loom is not just a symbol of tradition — it is the living embodiment of a people’s spirit.

Whether the Chil handloom weaving craft survives will depend not only on government policy or tourist demand, but on whether that spirit, passed quietly from hand to hand, continues to find its place in the hearts of the next generation. VNS