You might assume Aliman Esenalieva is too warm. The 60-year-old textile artist sits cross-legged on the floor of a felt-lined yurt on a scorching 90-degree June day just outside Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan’s capital. It’s midday. There’s no air conditioning, not even a fan in sight. And she’s putting the final touches on an intricate felt seat cover—meaning she’s not only inside a felt-covered yurt, but also has a large piece of wool draped across her lap.

Yet, despite all appearances, Esenalieva feels cool and comfortable—even peaceful. This is no accident, nor is it a surprise to her. As a longtime employee of Tumar Art Group, a traditional felting collective founded in 1998 by Kyrgyz entrepreneur Chinara Makashova and her aunt Roza Makashova, Esenalieva knows well the temperature-regulating power of felt. Made by compressing wool fibers using only soap, water, and friction, the material doesn’t just provide warmth in winter—it can also keep you cool in summer when made correctly.

But spend time talking with Esenalieva and her fellow Tumar artisans, as I did during a weeklong visit earlier this summer, and you’ll quickly see that traditional Kyrgyz felt offers more than just comfort. In the decades since Kyrgyzstan gained independence from the Soviet Union, felt has taken on new meaning as a symbol of cultural pride. And it’s women who are leading this change.

Kyrgyzstan is a small, landlocked, and stunningly beautiful country in Central Asia. Unlike its neighbors Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, which are largely flat, over 95% of Kyrgyzstan is mountainous—dominated by the vast, green Tian Shan range. This has led many Western writers to call it the “Switzerland of the East,” praising its alpine lakes, wildflower meadows, glacial rivers, and high-altitude pastures filled with horses and sheep.

Given the abundance of sheep, it’s no surprise that Kyrgyz people spent centuries as nomadic herders. Their lifestyle was inherently sustainable, relying on what the land and animals provided, wasting nothing, and crafting much of what they needed from felt—a material made without chemicals or synthetic additives. Nomadic Kyrgyz used this natural material to line their yurt floors and walls, make clothing, and create everyday items like rugs, saddlebags, and seat covers. There’s even a saying in Kyrgyzstan that people are “born on the felt and die on the felt,” reflecting how their entire lives once unfolded on felt-covered yurt floors.

Perhaps most notably, it was always women—not men—who kept the felting tradition alive, passing techniques and symbolic patterns orally from mother to daughter over generations. Traditional Kyrgyz designs often feature swirling curves instead of sharp angles, based on the belief that pointed shapes attract negative energy. Some patterns are thought to invite blessings like prosperity and fertility. They are usually mirrored and symmetrical, expressing the core Kyrgyz belief in harmony. This philosophy of balance, known as Tengri or Tengrism, is an ancient spiritual tradition rooted in the nomadic idea that everything in nature—earth and sky, light and dark, spirit and body—must exist in perfect equilibrium.

But during Soviet rule, from 1917 until the USSR’s collapse in 1991, many Kyrgyz cultural traditions like these were pushed aside in the drive for industrialization. As the country modernized, nomadic life gave way to settled, urban living—and the symbolism woven into felt designs began to lose its everyday significance.Traditional craft was still preserved to some extent through state-run folklore programs, cultural institutions, and oral traditions passed from mother to daughter, especially in rural villages. However, the focus was usually more on technique than on the deeper cultural meaning behind the tradition.

In recent decades, Kyrgyzstan has experienced a kind of cultural revival, driven by a desire to define and honor what it truly means to be Kyrgyz today—and traditional felting is at the center of this movement. Nazgul Esenbaeva, commercial director of Tumar Art Group—where Aliman Esenalieva works—explained during my visit: “After independence, people began to ask, ‘Why have we been identifying with Russians? We are not Russian. We are Kyrgyz. But who and what is Kyrgyz?’ So we started a process of self-discovery.” This process unfolded over the next 10 to 15 years, and today many Kyrgyz have a clearer sense of their identity and what makes their culture unique. “Kyrgyz is our mother tongue,” Nazgul continued. “Our nature, our folk music, our national dress and cuisine, and our art—our traditional folk arts and crafts.”

In fact, in 2012, shyrdak and ala-kiyiz rugs—two types of traditional Kyrgyz felt carpets—were added to UNESCO’s List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding. Then, in 2019, ak-kalpaks (traditional white felt hats for men) were also inscribed, followed by elechek (traditional women’s headwear) in 2023. Top Kyrgyz designers in high fashion have also begun incorporating traditional felting motifs into modern luxury clothing. Pieces by Aidai Asangulova, a renowned textile designer whose advocacy helped earn UNESCO recognition for Kyrgyz felting, are especially sought after for their modern take on traditional silk and felt.

But of course, their popularity isn’t just about the felt itself. When is felt ever just felt? As Nazgul told me, it’s more about a feeling than anything else. “Wearing and making felt today is about knowing it was made in Kyrgyzstan. It’s a way of saying, ‘This is part of our identity. This is us.’”

Growing up during Soviet rule, she used to help her grandmother make rugs at home. Back then, she found the wool itchy and didn’t value the process—because the craft itself wasn’t valued as it is now. “I saw felting as just a chore, something I had to do to help my grandmother,” she recalled. That began to change when she traveled to Japan during college, shortly after the Soviet Union collapsed, and saw how people there valued their traditional arts. “When I returned, I thought, ‘Why aren’t we valuing our craft the way they do? We have our own heritage, our own legacy.’” That’s when she began to appreciate Kyrgyz felt for the first time. And then, as if by magic, her wool allergy seemed to disappear.

Coincidence? Maybe. But probably not. As with many things in life, there’s a strong emotional element here that can’t be ignored.

“Felting was undervalued in Kyrgyzstan for so long… I didn’t appreciate it. But once I started paying attention, I began to feel peaceful just by touching it,” Nazgul shared. “Now, felting is one of the great loves of my life. I’m proud to continue generational traditions and to promote Kyrgyz culture through my work.”

Chinara Makashova has been at the forefront of this cultural celebration from the very beginning, long before it was widely recognized. She was just 26 when she co-founded Tumar in 1998. Back then, she didn’t really see felt as a symbol of cultural pride. No, she saw it—It was a way to survive—a means to an end. The Soviet Union had collapsed just a few years earlier, taking with it many of the stable industrial jobs it once provided. Times were hard, and her family was struggling to get by under the new market economy. Her mother had lost her job, as had her aunt Roza Eje (a term of respect for elders in Kyrgyz culture). Many people from that era missed the stability they had known under Soviet rule. So when her uncle offered her a job at his souvenir shop, she accepted without hesitation. That’s when she spotted a business opportunity. She noticed a high demand for traditional Kyrgyz crafts and gifts, but very little local supply—because people had largely stopped making things locally.

“After the Soviet Union fell, production in Kyrgyzstan basically stopped,” Chinara recalled. “Everyone rushed to import clothes and other goods, mostly from China, to make quick money. That’s when I realized I could create the supply myself to meet the demand.” As an economics major, she also knew that using local materials like felt was a relatively simple way to start. After all, she had access to sheep, as well as older women in the community who still remembered the traditional techniques passed down by their mothers. She decided to ask them for guidance.

It was a smart move. Today, Tumar is thriving. Chinara and her aunt Roza Eje, now 54 and 66, own and operate two felting factories and plan to build a third. They employ 220 people—about 80% of them women—and pay fair, competitive wages. This is especially notable in a country where low wages are common (around 31% of the GDP comes from migrant workers sending money home). Their ability to pay well is largely due to strict quality control. To make felt in the most authentic way, workers follow traditional methods: they pick twigs, grass, and other debris from the sheep’s wool by hand using tweezers and razors, then roll and press it with water and friction until it forms a dense fabric. This is incredibly time-consuming, which is why many factories rush or skip these steps altogether.

“Using natural threads takes much longer than using acrylic imports, which is what many local crafters do,” Nazgul explained one evening over dinner. “But working the traditional way is how we honor our culture.” She added that this method also makes the products more durable, helping them compete in the international market.

Tumar’s main buyer is Kyrgies, a slipper brand based in Richmond, Virginia, that specializes in sustainable, ethically sourced felt products. It was the quality of the felt that first drew Kyrgies founder Barclay Saul to partner with Tumar. “As soon as we tried the slippers on, we knew they were special,” he said, speaking beside a campfire at a yurt camp in the Tian Shan mountains. He was impressed not only by their comfort but also by their natural sustainability. Because traditional Kyrgyz felting uses no synthetics, nearly all of Kyrgies’ products are biodegradable. Customers love this, along with the cozy feel and cultural connection the slippers represent. “Kyrgies has grown mostly through word of mouth because people love everything about the slippers—especially the story behind the felt,” Saul noted.

For him, working with Tumar is as much about supporting a wThis woman-founded, owned, and operated business is about more than just the slippers themselves—it’s about keeping Kyrgyz artistic heritage alive. And in the end, that may be what matters most to Chinara and the other women at Tumar. What began as a practical decision—a way for her to support herself during hard times—has grown into a meaningful act of cultural preservation.

“When Roza and I first started Tumar, we just wanted to blend in and survive,” Chinara told me one afternoon after showing me around one of their workshops. “But now, as Kyrgyz people, we’re trying to stand out. We want to celebrate what makes us unique. The felting process gives us that strength—it connects us to our roots. It makes us proud of where we come from. This is our culture. It’s part of us. It’s who we are.”

Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of helpful and natural FAQs about the women preserving Kyrgyzstans ancient art of felting

FAQs Meet the Women Artisans Preserving Kyrgyzstans Ancient Art of Felting

Beginner Questions

Q What is Kyrgyz felting
A Its the traditional craft of creating textiles rugs and clothing by matting together wool fibers using moisture heat and pressure The most famous product is the shyrdak a colorful felt rug

Q Why is this tradition so important to preserve
A Its a vital part of Kyrgyz nomadic heritage and cultural identity The patterns and techniques tell stories and have been passed down for generations Losing this art would mean losing a piece of history

Q What are the main products they make
A The most iconic are shyrdaks and alakiyiz They also make clothing wall hangings slippers and decorative items

Q How can I support these artisans
A The best way is to buy their authentic products directly from them or through fairtrade organizations You can also help by sharing their stories and raising awareness about their work

Intermediate Questions

Q Whats the difference between a shyrdak and an alakiyiz
A A shyrdak is made by cutting and sewing together two contrasting layers of felt creating a durable patterned rug An alakiyiz is made by laying out colored wool patterns on a base layer and felting them together resulting in a softer more pictorial design

Q What kind of wool do they use
A They primarily use local sheeps wool prized for its quality and durability The wool is often cleaned dyed with natural or synthetic dyes and carded by hand before felting

Q Is this a sustainable or ecofriendly craft
A Very much so It uses a natural renewable resource and traditional lowenergy techniques Many artisans also use plantbased dyes making it an excellent example of sustainable craftsmanship

Q Are the patterns just decorative or do they have meaning
A Almost every pattern has a meaning They are symbolic