"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 74"
The sun blazed over the Tigray Highlands, where terraced fields clung to rocky slopes and ancient monasteries perched on cliff tops like stone eagles. Su Yao's jeep bounced along rutted roads, passing women in white shema robes carrying bundles of cotton on their heads, until it reached a village nestled between two mountain ranges. In a courtyard shaded by a giant sycamore tree, a group of weavers sat on low stools, their hands moving with rhythmic precision as they spun cotton into thread and wove it into thin, breathable fabric. Their leader, a 65-year-old woman with a headscarf embroidered with crosses and a shema draped over her shoulders named Aster, looked up as they approached, holding a finished cloth—crisp white with subtle red crosses and geometric patterns that seemed to glow in the sunlight. "You've come for the shema," she said, her Tigrinya dialect rolling like the Tekeze River, gesturing to piles of fabric folded beside clay dye pots.
The Tigray people of Ethiopia have crafted shema for over 2,000 years, a craft intertwined with their Orthodox Christian faith and agricultural cycles. The shema—a handwoven cotton robe—serves as both clothing and a spiritual symbol: it is worn to church services, used in baptism ceremonies, and given as gifts to honor saints. White represents purity, red crosses denote faith, and geometric patterns (called tibeb) tell stories from the Bible and Tigray history. Woven from cotton grown in the Tekeze Valley, each shema requires up to three months of work, with weavers timing their projects to align with church festivals—Lent for white robes, Easter for red-accented pieces. Dyes are made from plants and minerals found in the highlands: indigo for blue, pomegranate rind for yellow, and cochineal (traded from Sudan) for red, with recipes guarded by debtera (religious scholars) through oral tradition. The process begins with a prayer to St. George (patron of weavers) and weavers chant psalms while working to "infuse the cloth with the Holy Spirit." Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this sacred craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored Tigray traditions while adding durability to the cotton fibers. But from the first conversation, it was clear that their understanding of "spiritual purity" and "innovation" was as different as the highlands' thin air and the coastal humidity.
Aster's granddaughter, Selam, a 27-year-old who taught weaving classes at a community center while studying theology, held up a shema with a pattern of intertwined crosses and wheat stalks. "This is for Timkat (Epiphany)," she said, tracing the motifs that celebrate Christ's baptism. "My grandmother wove it during Kessate (Lent) when we fast and pray—too many red threads, and the cloth becomes prideful; too few, and it lacks the blood of Christ. You don't just make shema—you weave the word of God into cotton."
Su Yao's team had brought electric spinning machines and synthetic dye blends, intending to mass-produce simplified shema patterns using their seaweed-metal blend for a "Ethiopian Orthodox" religious goods line. When Lin displayed a prototype with machine-embroidered crosses, the weavers froze, their wooden spindles clattering to the dirt floor. Aster's husband, Gebre, a 70-year-old qes (priest) with a long beard and a staff carved from olive wood, stood and crossed himself before speaking. "You think machines can capture the ruach (spirit) of the Holy Trinity?" he said, his voice booming like a church bell. "Shema carries the prayers of monks and the tears of penitents. Your metal has no prayers, no tears—it's a stone, not a sacrament."
Cultural friction deepened over materials and rituals. Tigray weavers plant cotton seeds during Enkutatash (Ethiopian New Year), blessing them with holy water from Lalibela's churches to "make the fibers pure." The cotton is harvested during Meskerem (first month) when the moon is full, with the first boll offered to the church as a tithe. Dyes are prepared in copper pots over fires of olive wood (imported from Jerusalem), with each color mixed according to church calendar—red is dyed during Hosanna (Palm Sunday) for "victory," blue during Sigd (Jewish-Tigray festival) for "holiness." The seaweed-metal blend, despite its organic origins, was viewed as an intrusion. "Your thread comes from salt water that corrupts," Gebre said, placing the sample on a tabot (holy ark replica). "It will never hold the Holy Spirit."
A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the cochineal dye, turning it a murky brown and causing the cotton fibers to weaken. "It angers St. George," Selam said, holding up a ruined swatch where the cross patterns had frayed. "Our shema grows holier with each church service, like a Bible that's read daily. This will decay like an unrepentant soul, erasing God's word."
Then disaster struck: a severe drought parched the Tigray Highlands, drying up the Tekeze River and killing the cotton crops. The weavers' looms—some carved from wood from the Ark of the Covenant replica in Axum—When the villagers removed the wooden parts for use as firewood, these parts were damaged.and their supply of rare indigo dye (traded from Eritrea) was exhausted. With Meskel (Finding of the True Cross) approaching, when new shema are worn to celebrate, the community faced a spiritual and agricultural crisis. Gebre, performing a mystery play reenacting Elijah's drought prayer, blamed the team for disturbing the natural balance. "You brought something foreign to our holy land," he chanted, as the congregation responded with "Amen." "Now God is testing us, and he withholds the rain."
That night, Su Yao sat with Aster in her thatched-roof house, where a clay pot of shiro (chickpea stew) simmered over a dung fire, filling the air with the scent of berbere spice. The walls were hung with shema robes and icons of saints, and a small altar held a Bible, a cross, and a candle. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, sipping tej (honey wine) from a glass beaker. "We came here thinking we could honor your craft, but we've only shown we don't understand its soul."
Aster smiled, passing Su Yao a piece of injera (sourdough flatbread) topped with lentils. "The drought is not your fault," she said. "God tests his people to strengthen their faith, like a blacksmith tempers steel. My grandmother used to say that even parched cotton can be revived, like a sinner can be redeemed. But your thread—maybe it's a chance to show that shema can spread God's word to new lands, without losing our holy traditions. Young people buy cheap cloth from Addis Ababa. We need to show them our weaving still speaks to God."
Su Yao nodded, hope blooming like desert flowers after rain. "What if we start over? We'll help dig irrigation canals from the remaining water sources, plant drought-resistant cotton varieties, and trade for new dye supplies. We'll learn to spin and weave shema by hand, using your psalms. We won't copy your sacred patterns. Instead, we'll create new ones together—designs that merge your crosses with our ocean waves, honoring both your faith and the sea. And we'll let Gebre bless the metal thread with holy water, so it carries God's favor."
Selam, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped inside, her sandals kicking up dust. "You'd really learn to weave the tibeb patterns from memory? It takes years to memorize the 400+ motifs—your fingers will cramp, your mind will blur from concentration."
"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll learn the zema (church songs) you sing while working. Respect means praying with your people."
Over the next five months, the team immersed themselves in Tigray life. They helped build stone irrigation channels to redirect water from mountain springs, their hands blistered from lifting rocks, and traveled with Gebre to Lalibela to collect holy water for blessing new cotton seeds. They sat on stools in the courtyard, spinning cotton until their fingers were raw, as the women sang zema songs in Ge'ez (ancient church language) that echoed through the hills. "Each thread must be spun with a prayer," Aster said, showing Su Yao how to twist the cotton. "Too loose, and it holds no faith; too tight, and it becomes judgmental. Like a Christian life—balanced in love."
They learned to dye cotton in copper pots over olive-wood fires, their clothes stained red and blue as Selam taught them to add myrrh (imported from Somalia) to the cochineal dye to "make the color shine like the glory of God." "You have to stir the dye while reciting Psalm 23," she said, her voice rising in song. "Without scripture, the color fades like a faithless heart." They practiced the plain weave that forms the shema's foundation, their progress slow but steady as Aster's 89-year-old mother, Tigist, who had woven robes for patriarchs, corrected their work with a sharp eye. "The crosses must be straight like the path to heaven," she said, her gnarled fingers adjusting a thread. "A crooked cross leads souls astray."
To solve the reaction between the metal threads and cochineal dye, Lin experimented with coating the metal in a solution of beeswax and frankincense, a mixture Tigray churches use to seal holy relics. The wax sealed the metal, preventing discoloration, while the incense added a subtle fragrance that Gebre declared "smells like the Garden of Eden." "It's like giving the thread a Christian soul," she said, showing Aster a swatch where the red now blazed against the metal's shimmer.
Fiona, inspired by the way Ethiopia's Blue Nile connects to the Mediterranean, designed a new pattern called "Rivers of Salvation," merging cross motifs with wave patterns in seaweed-metal thread. The crosses gradually transform into river currents, symbolizing how faith flows like water to all lands. "It honors your saints and our sailors," she said, and Gebre nodded, pressing the fabric to his forehead in a blessing. "God's word is like water—it nourishes all peoples," he said. "This cloth understands his love."
As the rains finally came and the cotton fields sprouted green shoots, the community held a Meskel celebration, with bonfires lit to represent the finding of the True Cross and priests blessing the new shema robes. They unveiled their first collaborative shema at the village church, where it hung between two icons catching the light of candles. The fabric featured the "Rivers of Salvation" pattern, its cotton fibers strengthened by seaweed-metal thread that glowed like sunlight on water, and traditional tibeb borders that seemed to dance with spiritual energy.
Aster draped the shema over Su Yao's shoulders, as the congregation sang zema in harmony. "This cloth has two blessings," she said, her voice rising with the music. "One from our Tigray, one from your sea. But both carry God's love."
As the team's jeep drove away from the village, Selam ran alongside, waving a small package. Su Yao rolled down the window, and she tossed it in: a scrap of cotton dyed red with cochineal, stitched with a tiny cross and wave in seaweed-metal, wrapped in wheat stalks. "To remember us by," read a note in Tigrinya and Amharic. "Remember that God's love flows through both land and sea—like your thread and our cotton."
Su Yao clutched the package as the Tigray Highlands faded into the distance, the sun setting behind the mountains in a blaze of gold. She thought of the hours spent weaving in the courtyard, the zema songs that seemed to carry the voice of angels, the way the metal thread had finally learned to dance with the cotton. The Tigray people had taught her that tradition isn't about being trapped in religious dogma—it's about carrying faith forward through craft, letting old patterns evolve while keeping the sacred in every stitch.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Cretan team: photos of Maria holding their collaborative koumeli at a Minoan festival. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new cross—Tigray highlands and your sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang, its sound echoing across the valleys like a prayer. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless faiths to honor, countless stories of spirit to weave into the tapestry of their work. And as long as they approached each new place with humility—listening to the divine, honoring the faithful—the tapestry would only grow more sacred, a testament to the beauty of all things bound by faith and thread.