From Sheep to Fabric: The Revival of Kyrgyz Felting Traditions by Modern Artisans

On a slightly cloudy day, felt artist Chinara Makashova and I gather at Restoran Pishpek, a bistro designed to evoke a 19th-century fortress. Our purpose here is twofold: to enjoy a meal and to discuss the rich history of this land, deeply connected to shepherds, sheep, wool, and mutton. Framed felt artworks adorn the walls, one illustrating buzkashi, a Central Asian sport akin to polo, where riders pursue a headless goat instead of a ball. Our table is laden with beets, borscht, various fried breads, and an abundance of meat.

We find ourselves in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, close to the Kazakhstan border. Unlike many places steeped in history, Bishkek lacks ancient stone structures or cobbled streets bustling with tourists. Instead, it features cool, tree-lined avenues, ragged rose bushes in its parks, Soviet-era plazas, and stark brutalist buildings. In the downtown area surrounding the restaurant, soldiers in uniform mingle with young women in hijabs and older women in babushkas. Street vendors sell shoro—a fermented barley and milk beverage—from blue coolers at almost every corner.

Kyrgyzstan, home to nearly 7 million residents, is a lush green landscape amid Central Asia's arid expanse. Comparable in size to Nebraska, this nation has historically attracted many conquerors seeking its rich natural resources and fertile farmland, including Ottoman Turks, Mongol hordes, and Qing Dynasty imperialists. In 1876, Kyrgyzstan was annexed by the Russian Empire and functioned as a remote colonial outpost until the Soviet Union's establishment in 1917. For 75 years, the country struggled to preserve its unique national identity within the Soviet Union's complex hierarchy of republics, remaining part of the former superpower until its dissolution in 1992.

In the past, the population was predominantly nomadic, with 40 different tribes sharing the land, symbolized by the 40 rays of the sun on the Kyrgyz flag. Today, very few maintain the traditional lifestyle. For millennia, herding communities moved freely across the western steppe, living under the towering Tian Shan Mountains. Nomads primarily raised sheep for mutton and wool, one of the most valuable fibers in the world. With just warm water, soap, and some effort, raw wool could be transformed into felt. Across Central Asia, from Siberia to Nepal, nomadic groups have utilized felt for clothing, warmth, animal care, and even shelter. Today, felted wool carpets and wall coverings continue to be used in yurts.

While most modern Kyrgyz shepherds have abandoned a nomadic lifestyle, many still migrate their flocks from the valleys of the Tian Shan to higher altitudes in the summer. This seasonal movement allows the sheep's fleece to thicken, providing insulation against the cold. The dramatic shifts between peaks and pastures enhance the wool’s quality, making it thick, strong, and luxurious. As Makashova explains, the long, durable wool fibers are perfect for high-quality felt.

The nomadic lifestyle depended heavily on the oral transmission of knowledge for survival. The art of felting was particularly passed down from mother to daughter. However, during Soviet rule, much of Kyrgyz culture faced Russification. As a result, many traditional practices began to fade, risking the loss of crafts like felting in the name of progress.

When Makashova graduated from university in Bishkek in 1994, her world was in turmoil. The Soviet Union had collapsed a few years earlier, leading to a significant economic downturn. Jobs that once existed under communism had disappeared. Along with her aunt Roza Makashova and sister-in-law Nazgul Esenbaeva—all young, driven, and creative—Chinara sought sustainable career paths amidst the uncertainty.

The shift to a capitalist economy brought pressure on everyone to generate income. Women faced particular obstacles; they were expected to juggle domestic duties with employment, yet their job opportunities were severely restricted. (Even today, Kyrgyz women are prohibited from numerous “dangerous” professions, from metalworking to winemaking.) Many women found the most accessible employment in textile factories.

However, factory jobs—characterized by loud, harsh, and challenging conditions—held little appeal for Chinara or the other Makashova women. They began exploring alternatives, such as felting. The notion of working with their hands and honoring their heritage resonated profoundly with them. Felting was not only creative and engaging but also connected them to their roots and the rural environments in which they had been raised. It fueled their inspiration.

“If you couldn’t find a job, you had to make do with what you could do,” says Makashova. “For us, that was felting.”

As knowledge of felting rapidly diminished, a few elder women in their community still held onto the ancient craft, passed down from their mothers before the Soviet era ended. The Makashovas turned to them to learn about traditional Kyrgyz felting patterns, motifs, and techniques. “It was all about experimenting, making mistakes, and learning,” says Roza Makashova.

Before long, they began selling items such as shyrdaks (the carpets used in yurts) in the city. Makashova would frequently travel between her home in Bishkek and Roza's village, navigating through trial and error—and a lot of determination. In 1998, the Makashova women established the Tumar Art Group, a cooperative for felted wool artists. (Future references to Tumar Art Group will be abbreviated as “Tumar.”)

“We wondered, ‘What will future generations look back on and study about our art in 100 years?’” says Makashova. “I aimed to create something modern, yet rooted in traditional art.”

The factory

Located on Kiev Street, the Tumar showroom bursts with light and vibrant colors. Customers explore an array of felted scarves, tote bags, pillow shams, shyrdaks, and toys for children. On one shelf, a small felted scene features two figures beside their sheep and a miniature yurt. Nowadays, the Makashova family no longer works solely on their own—they operate a busy production facility near Bishkek’s sprawling Osh Bazaar.

On the scorching June day of my visit, the factory buzzes with activity, filled with various sounds and scents. The air carries the aromas of wet sheep, rust, and rubber cement. I hear the whir of machines processing wool fibers, the swish and clatter of wood against metal as dye is mixed, and the rhythmic slapping of hands as workers mold felt around clog-shaped shoe forms. In one area, where freshly crafted slippers hang to dry, the walls are insulated with leftover felt scraps: Tumar adheres to a no-waste policy.

Over the past three years, the company has nearly doubled its workforce, growing to 230 employees. Tumar now supports a network of around 1,500 independent family sheep farms and produces goods for brands located in Finland, Germany, the United States, and beyond.

A significant portion of its recent success can be linked to a booming “house shoe” trend (currently its most popular product), which was ignited by the pandemic and a growing consumer preference for comfort wear. Presently, about 80% of its business revolves around crafting slippers for a small U.S. brand named Kyrgies, based in Richmond, Virginia. By partnering with Tumar, Kyrgies ensures their products are carbon neutral, produced by a women-led, family-operated company that provides its workers with a living wage and uses high-quality materials sourced from local sheep farms. The rising interest from international buyers in ethically produced, sustainable products has enabled the family business to flourish in ways the Makashovas could never have envisioned back in the 1990s.

As Tumar’s business expands, the international reputation of Kyrgyz felt is gaining momentum as well. In 2012, UNESCO recognized Kyrgyz felted carpet-making techniques as part of its list of “Intangible Cultural Heritages in Need of Urgent Safeguarding.” In 2019, the making of ak-kalpaks, the traditional felt hats worn by Kyrgyz men, was also added to this prestigious list. Makashova and her colleagues at Tumar aim to elevate Kyrgyz products from being perceived as cheap (especially domestically) to high-quality items that are respected internationally—products that blend modernity with traditional heritage, worthy of pride. Their efforts are yielding results.

“Last year, a survey asked locals, ‘Which Kyrgyz brands do you take pride in?’” Makashova shares. “Many named Tumar. I take pride in that impact. They see Kyrgyz culture reflected in our products.”

The future

The demand for Tumar’s products is growing so rapidly that the team has recently decided to expand its production facilities. Construction is underway for the company’s second felt-making factory in an industrial area on the outskirts of the city. Some operations are already taking place in this new facility, which is equipped with more advanced machinery than the Bishkek factory and offers significantly more workspace.

This expansion is partly thanks to a grant from the U.S. Agency for International Development, which has been active in Central Asia since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, promoting stability and sustainable business practices in the region. With this support, the Makashovas’ aspirations to enhance their business and uplift Kyrgyz communities are coming to fruition. Recently, the Tumar team implemented a filtration system to cleanse the facility’s wastewater of dye. They are also establishing processes to clean dirty wool, a practice that has never been feasible in Kyrgyzstan until now.

Previously, households discarded “dirty” wool. Now, for sheep-farming families that primarily raise sheep for mutton, this previously deemed unusable wool could become a new source of income—and Tumar will gain access to more raw materials (with plans to share some with regional artisans). Chinara Makashova envisions that as more families learn to profit from wool, new businesses will emerge, and rural economies will thrive.

Makashova understands that for felting to endure, it's not just about having raw materials; it's essential to pass on the knowledge of the craft to preserve the tradition. She frequently conducts workshops and master classes, sometimes traveling a day and a half from Bishkek to remote mountain villages to train aspiring felt makers.

“I dream of sitting down and sewing.” She chuckles. “Yes, that’s definitely me.”