There is barely time for introductions before the women at Inaash Association are proudly unfurling their work for me. Reams of fabric embroidered with Palestinian tatreez are piled onto the table. Deep crimson motifs bloom against fields of black and ivory; lozenges, cypress trees, and amulets thread their way into measured geometric grids. At the center, there is a rectangular piece of material emblazoned with a map. “It is the map of Palestine,” Samar Kabuli, the head embroiderer at Inaash, tells me. One by one, each of the women points to a place on the map that their family once called home.
Rula Fayez Baraka, a 45-year-old refugee living in Lebanon and an embroiderer at Inaash, tells me that she has spent her entire life in exile. “Israeli settlers forcibly took our house during the Nakba,” Rula recounts. “My father sought refuge in Lebanon, where he routinely moved between different camps in order to find work or shelter. That is the Palestinian way of life—always moving.”
Every embroiderer at Inaash has been displaced, their families among the 470,000 Palestinian refugees currently registered in Lebanon. The majority live across the country’s 12 refugee camps. “The camps are extremely overcrowded,” Rula explains. “The alleys are flooded with dirty water and electrical cables hanging overhead. Employment is scarce due to Lebanese laws banning us from certain jobs.” Founded in 1969 by acclaimed artist Huguette Caland El Khoury, Inaash is a direct response to this multi-pronged crisis. The social enterprise primarily aims to provide employment opportunities for female Palestinian refugees, offering their pieces—ranging from embroidered dresses and shawls to bags, cushions, and framed textiles—for sale online and at exhibitions around the world. Since its inception, the organization has trained and employed over 2,000 refugees.
The majority of the women already know how to embroider when they join Inaash, often having learned from female family members. “We are taught about the historical importance of tatreez at school,” Samar notes, explaining that the embroidery style dates back over 3,000 years and each village in Palestine has its own distinct tatreez pattern. “The designs tell stories about our local culture—the people, animals, plants, and beliefs in the area.”
What begins as a domestic craft becomes a vocation through Inaash; once hired, the women are given formal training and opportunities for career development. “We start them on basic patterns, then routinely assess their ability to progress,” Ali Jaafar, the general manager, explains. “Samar joined us over 20 years ago at an entry-level position. Today she leads the 400 embroiderers we employ.”
One of the projects the team recently worked on was for an exhibition at the Islamic Arts Museum of Malaysia. Their brief was to recreate 70 historical Palestinian dresses, each representing the traditional designs from various cities and towns. “We had to undertake a meticulous research process to find all the details we needed,” Samar says. “It took over three years to complete."
Projects such as these carry significant emotional weight for the embroiderers. “The motifs from my father’s region, Safed, touched me deeply,” Samar reveals. Due to Israel’s continued refusal to grant Palestinian refugees the right to return, Samar has never been able to visit Safed. “Through tatreez, I was able to learn more about the plants, animals, and traditions of the area. I could picture it in my mind.”
As part of the project, Inaash created framed embroidered miniatures of the dresses for people to display in their homes. “We wanted to make sure the traditional patterns would not be easily forgotten again,” Sama explains.
Alongside cultural preservation, Inaash’s operations play a significant role in spotlighting the Palestinian cause. “It can be difficult to talk about our plight and find people who will listen,” Rula says solemnly. “Tatreez has become a silent message of resistance. Each piece is proof that the Palestinian people will endure, that our craft will never disappear.”
Embroidering often acts as an effective form of therapy, too. Samar tells me of a woman who was abducted by Israeli forces in the 1980s. “She was 17 at the time, they abused her for two years,” Samar recalls softly. “After they released her, she was completely unstable. The only thing that would calm her down was stitching.” Today, the woman is in her 50s and continues to take on projects. “If she does not have embroidery, she walks around restless, talking to herself,” Samar continues. “So we always give her work. It takes her a year to complete sometimes, but she gives back beautiful pieces.”
Rula, too, found solace in the rhythm of the needle. “Israel’s genocide in Gaza has been painful to watch,” Rula says. “When it gets too heavy to handle, I turn off the television and just embroider. It helps me relax.”
The challenges of living in Lebanon have also been immense. The country’s economic collapse, the 2020 port explosion, and the recurring waves of conflict with Israel have made survival increasingly precarious. “Living and working in Lebanon is not easy,” Ali admits. “Electricity shortages mean the women often climb onto their rooftops to catch the light while sewing. “
During the war between Lebanon and Israel at the end of 2024, embroiderers at Inaash were displaced from their homes. “Even while fleeing, the women made sure to take their embroidery bags with them,” Jafaar says. “They told us they wanted to keep stitching, because the work gives them independence.”
This sense of financial autonomy has sparked a sense of hope in the women. Salwa Abed el Rasool, a 35-year-old embroiderer, tells me that she is investing her wages in her children. “My mother taught us that education was our only weapon in this world,” Salwa recalls, explaining that she now uses her wages to pay for her daughter’s schooling. “I will never forget receiving my first paycheck—it gave me so much hope that my daughter might have a better life than me,” she says, with a smile.
Salwa digs around to find a copy of the first piece she was ever paid for. Triumphantly, she brandishes a white tote bag emblazoned with the image of Handala. Created in 1969, Handala is a 10-year-old Palestinian refugee depicted in Naji al-Ali’s iconic cartoons. “In the comics, his back is always turned away from the world, refusing to grow up or show his face until he can return to his homeland,” Salwa says, running her fingers over the stitches. “One day, I hope to stitch him standing forward, ready to return.”
