Blankets: Family objects and identity

Written by Leila Gamaz

In the afternoon, everyone scatters to corners of the house and the kitchen is closed. My aunts and I gather in the courtyard drinking milky coffee with flatbreads dipped in apricot jam. Family stories are often revealed to me incidentally during such moments; Amina threads a needle through a snag on her djellaba and I ask if anyone in our family was a weaver. I’m led to a cupboard and my aunt motions towards a stack of blankets inside. We lay them out on the ground: one thick handmade woolen rug of bright greens and reds, a vast cream blanket with vibrant flecks of pinks and orange and a more modern multicoloured rag rug. 

We sit cross legged on them and other family members trickle in. Everyone has an anecdote they want to share. Teary-eyed, my dad grasps the cream blanket. He remembers its heavy warmth on cold nights in the internment camp; during The Algerian War Of Independence, the French moved rural populations to camps in towns to stop them assisting the Algerian freedom fighters. Despite living under 24 hour surveillance, my family still found a way to reach them. Weapons were stored behind a false wall. Fighters would enter the camp at night and my dad would be fed through the gap, handing up weapons. He was fed sweets and sworn to secrecy; my whole family would have been killed if it was discovered.

Through a combination of French, Arabic, and scrawled notes on pieces of paper, we concluded that the maker of the blanket was my great-great-aunt, Fatma. Sought-after and feared in equal measure for her clairvoyancy, she would regularly stay at our family home. Women from the village would bring objects to be placed under her pillow overnight. The next day they would return and Fatma would reveal her visions; would they marry their sweetheart? Would their olive harvest be good?

Leila’s great grandmother making butter in Algeria

After some back and forth between my family, they insisted that I should be entrusted with the blanket. I’m honoured to be seen as the keeper of our history, yet there are moments when I feel conflicted. What does it mean to remove objects from the country they came from? How does this relate to the ongoing discussion around displaying stolen objects in European museums? I think of these artefacts sat lifeless on shelves and untouched. My family's identity and culture was systematically eradicated by the French occupation, and I wonder whether I’m further displacing our memories by taking the blanket out of Algeria. 

But this blanket was a gift. The act of giving in the Arab world is considered so precious that there is a specific word for a gift that comes from the heart - ‘hiba’, my cousin's name. It’s in this spirit of generosity that the blanket was given once before, from Fatma to my family.

Fatma would have made the blanket by hand over many months. A newly-shorn fleece is washed in the river before separating the fibres; thick strong threads for the warp and short curlier threads for the weft. The wool is carded and spun before being sorted for dyeing. Some is then put aside to weave in its natural hues, and some plunged into pots of dye on an open fire and stirred with a stick. Fatma made this blanket out of necessity, yet she also chose to pepper it with hand-dyed flecks of colours; pinks, reds, and yellows drawn from natural plants such as henna, pomegranate and onion skins. They’re lifted out of the pots and sprawled across bushes to dry in the sun. 

A simple wooden square frame is mounted, bound with rope at each corner, and held in place with large boulders. Fatma would perch on a low wooden stool, whisper a prayer, and manually thread the weft between the warp in a snake-like motion. The wool is patted down regularly with a steel tool like a fish slice, ensuring a tight weave to keep out harsh winters. An error is intentionally left in the weave as a marker of human imperfection. 

Deep in the mountains amongst the indigenous population where my descendents lived, I met Wiza. My great-grandfather owned a plot of land here with fig and olive trees, though no one knows where. The more treacherous and beautiful the land is in Algeria, the more alive this craft appears to be. Wiza glides between milking her goat, picking lemons and weaving, all with her grandson strapped to her back. 

This blanket connects me to stories going back four generations, but it also makes me think of objects that have been lost. Their survival feels like an act of subversion when a colonial occupation has destroyed so much of our material history. Yet I’ve noticed that my dad and I, physically distanced from Algeria, cling to objects in a way the rest of my family don’t. The blanket had been forgotten and unseen for decades. Family objects often hold a special place in the hearts of first and second-generation immigrants. They contain a multitude of stories and can serve as a time capsule of our ancestors' voices. But where and to whom do they belong with?

In England I rented a loom for two weeks and wove three small samplers. They hang modestly beside the blanket, which is mounted on a long brass pole in the corridor. I think of my family each time I walk past it, though I still wonder if its real home is the darkness of the cupboard. 

Find out more from Leila at @leilagamaz