Needlework as Resistance: Chile, Colombia, & Mexico

*Originally written on May 8, 2024

Throughout history and across cultures, craft has served as a powerful form of expression, particularly for women, preserving oral histories passed down through matrilineal generations. In Latin America, needlework often becomes a vital voice, allowing women to translate memories and experiences—especially those too painful to articulate—into visual narratives. This essay examines twenty-first-century needlework collectives in Chile, Colombia, and Mexico, which address broader social, political, and economic issues affecting artisans and their communities. Colombian legal scholar Yolanda Sierra-León refers to these practices as forms of aesthetic litigation: when traditional judicial avenues fail, communities turn to artistic or aesthetic means to denounce or demand recognition for human rights violations perpetrated by various armed actors, violations that have profoundly disrupted individual and collective life.

As aesthetic litigation, the work of arpilleristas, weavers, and embroiderers functions as “vehicles of memory”—acts of remembrance, truth-telling, and resistance that emerge from the margins and speak to experiences of loss, trauma, and exclusion. These narratives challenge official histories and seek to correct gaps in collective memory by centring the lived experiences of those subjected to political violence and systemic neglect. While the history of arpilleras in Chile has been widely recognized and studied in the Global North, there remains an urgent need to expand our understanding of other needlework traditions in Latin America that confront issues of justice and human rights. By doing so, we can better acknowledge and amplify perspectives that have been overlooked on the international stage.

Paz Justicia Libertad / Peace Justice Freedom

Chilean arpillera, anon.., late 1970s

“Transforming threads of resistance: political arpilleras & textiles by women from Chile and around the world” (2012) at the University of Massachusetts Amherst

Queremos Democracia / We want democracy

Chilean arpillera, Vicaría de la Solidaridad, 1988

“Transforming threads of resistance: political arpilleras & textiles by women from Chile and around the world” (2012) at University of Massachusetts Amherst

Chile

Chile has a rich history of arpilleras, a textile tradition that originated in the 1950s and 1960s. These hand-stitched pieces, often embroidered or appliquéd, typically measured between one-fourth and one-sixth the size of a traditional flour or potato sack. In their early form, arpilleras served as a means for Chilean women to gather and depict scenes of harmonious daily life in rural or domestic settings. However, the political landscape in Chile shifted dramatically with the 1970 election of Salvador Allende, the first freely elected Socialist president in the Western hemisphere. Allende promised sweeping socioeconomic reforms, including the nationalization of foreign-owned copper mines, the regulation of banking and agriculture, and the redistribution of wealth through state resources.

These reforms faced strong opposition from U.S. corporations and the Chilean elite. In response, the Nixon administration, in collaboration with the CIA, supported efforts to destabilize Allende's government. During the early years of Allende’s presidency, Chile struggled with inflation, food shortages, and economic pressure, as the CIA funnelled funds to the military, cut bilateral aid to civilian sectors, and bolstered opposition media outlets like El Mercurio, owned by the conservative Agustín Edwards. These pressures laid the groundwork for the military coup led by General Augusto Pinochet on September 11, 1973.

Under Pinochet’s authoritarian regime, Chile was marked by state surveillance, curfews, widespread torture, targeted assassinations, and forced disappearances. Over 200,000 people were forced into exile, and tens of thousands were tortured. In an effort to uphold a conservative social order, the regime also sought to control women’s roles through the National Secretariat of Women (NSW), led by First Lady Lucía Hiriart de Pinochet. The NSW promoted anti-socialist, anti-feminist ideology, distributing carnets—identification cards—only to women who participated in pro-regime activities, granting them access to essential services such as education, housing, and healthcare. Women without carnets risked imprisonment, torture, or death.

It was under these dire circumstances that arpilleristas, many of them women affected by the regime's violence, transformed their craft into a form of resistance. Their tapestries became political tools, documenting the brutality of daily life under dictatorship and mourning the loss of missing and murdered family members. What began as a domestic folk tradition evolved into a powerful medium of protest, memory, and survival.

The arpillera is a folk art form rooted in feminine, domestic spaces. Amid widespread censorship and state violence, women turned to needlework as a discreet form of activism, carried out in private, often in invisible spaces such as homes and places of worship. Because arpilleras were seen as quaint, traditional crafts, their makers were often overlooked by the regime, allowing women to document life under dictatorship without immediately drawing suspicion. Despite military prohibitions against organized dissent, arpillera workshops emerged as coordinated efforts of resistance. These gatherings provided women with both community and purpose, spaces where they could grieve, remember, and create together.

In sewing circles, women helped one another choose the stories they would tell, design layouts, and assemble fabric pieces, creating acts of living memory. The process of making arpilleras became a therapeutic and creative outlet, offering strength and solace through collective expression. As scholar Ricia Chansky notes, these collectives exist within a powerful dichotomy. While arpilleras emerged from a female-centred tradition historically tied to domestic confinement, they simultaneously became tools of resistance. The needle, in this context, becomes a symbol of both pain and regeneration: “The needle stabs as it creates… from a violent action comes the birth of a new whole.”

These arpilleras are deeply personal artifacts, often incorporating fabric from the makers' own clothing, as well as hair, garments, and bedding belonging to the disappeared. While this practice partly stemmed from material scarcity, it was also a profound way of memorializing loved ones, embedding their physical traces into narratives of survival and resistance.

Anonymous, ¿Dónde están nuestros hijos? (Where are our children?), 1979. Roberta Bacic Collection

Arpilleristas stitched scenes depicting women in shantytowns cooking in communal kitchens, men turned away from factories in search of work, and soldiers harassing protesters. Other arpilleras used symbolic imagery: caged doves, chained hands, and excerpts from the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights—to convey protest and loss. One striking example, ¿Dónde están nuestros hijos? (Where are our children?), reflects the painful reality faced by families of those detained and disappeared by the Chilean military junta. Many still do not know the fate or burial sites of their loved ones. This particular arpillera shows a weeping mother surrounded by images of chained fists and doves falling from the sky. On the back, a small pocket contains a handwritten note, one of many such messages that women often stitched into their textiles, addressed to whoever purchased them.

During the Pinochet dictatorship, arpilleras were primarily sold overseas, both to raise awareness and to provide financial support to their makers. The Vicaría de la Solidaridad (Vicariate of Solidarity), a Catholic organization, played a key role in exporting them to buyers in Europe, North America, and Australia. With many men imprisoned, disappeared, or unemployed as a result of political persecution, women used arpilleras as a means of survival. The economic situation was dire, marked by inflation, food and utility shortages, and mass unemployment as Chile transitioned into neoliberalism. Selling arpilleras gave women a form of economic agency in an increasingly volatile environment. Though parting with these deeply personal works was often painful, their circulation allowed others to stand in solidarity while offering much-needed financial aid. Beyond Santiago’s shantytowns, producers also included female political prisoners, relatives of the disappeared, former male prisoners, and Chilean exiles in places like Sweden and England.

Visually, arpilleras appear as vibrant, folksy textiles, populated with cloth doll-like figures stitched into colourful landscapes. At first glance, they may seem lighthearted or quaint. But a closer look reveals scenes of political unrest, state violence, and everyday hardship. This striking contrast between cheerful materiality and harrowing subject matter made the arpillera a uniquely powerful form of art and activism. Embroidery, long associated with domesticity and women’s pastimes, was transformed into a radical, subversive tool of resistance. In every thread, arpilleristas pushed back: against poverty through grassroots export, against dictatorship through storytelling, against the gendered limits of political expression, and against the art world's traditional hierarchies.

During the dictatorship, the regime attempted to co-opt this form by funding workshops for loyalist women to produce “counter-arpilleras.” These versions were made with finer materials and emblazoned with pro-regime slogans celebrating order and peace. They served as propaganda, mocking the work of marginalized artisans. Though these state-produced textiles are rarely preserved or displayed today, arpilleristas face a new form of appropriation in the present day. Commercialized arpilleras—stripped of their political roots—now fill tourist markets and gift shops across Chile. Sold with cheerful scenes of women feeding geese or alpacas on hillsides, these mass-produced versions flatten a deeply political art form into sanitized kitsch.

Organizations like Fundación Artesanía de Chile, a state-supported nonprofit, claim to “preserve Chilean cultural identity and create opportunities for traditional artisans.” Yet in doing so, they often erase the political and historical weight of the arpilleras made between 1973 and 1990. This act of historical omission turns the arpillera from a site of memory and resistance into a tool of cultural tourism and nationalist idealism. For many arpilleristas, this is not just commercialization—it is erasure. Despite these challenges, contemporary arpilleristas continue to draw from the legacy of their predecessors, upholding the arpillera’s role as a powerful medium for protest, remembrance, and community.

Memorarte, Chile Despertó, Estallido Social, Octubre 2019/Chile Woke Up, Social Outbreak, October 2019, 2022. Source: Instagram.

Catalina Larrere Salort, Chile Awoke, 2019, OppArt, The Nation

Memorarte workshop for Madres de Falsos Positivos de Soach in Bogota, Colombia (November 8, 2022)

Memorarte members at a pro-Palestine protest (March 17, 2024)

Contemporary groups such as Bordadoras de Angachilla and Bordadoras Andinas continue the arpillera tradition by addressing ecological concerns, while collectives like Bordadoras en Resistencia, Bordadoras Villa Frei, and Memorarte focus on human rights and social justice. One striking example, Chile Despertó, Estallido Social, Octubre 2019 (Chile Woke Up, Social Outbreak), depicts the mass protests that erupted on October 25, 2019, and continued into March 2020. Over 1.2 million people took to the streets of Santiago in what became known as “the biggest march in Chile,” protesting widespread inequality. These arpilleras, while echoing the visual language of late 20th-century works, incorporate distinctly contemporary symbols: protesters carrying ACAB signs, waving LGBTQ+ flags, marking a shift in the evolving iconography of resistance.

The arpillera remains a timeless and reliable medium for expressing dissent against political and social injustice. Like their predecessors, these contemporary groups actively seek global solidarity, though their methods now include digital platforms. Social media has become a vital tool for outreach, education, and collaboration. Many collectives issue open calls for participation, encouraging international artisans to join in their campaigns. Despite emerging from specific geographic and cultural contexts, their projects often transcend national borders to build wider networks of resistance and care.

In 2021, the group launched a participatory project titled “One Square Meter of the Pandemic,” inviting sewing collectives worldwide to embroider textile works reflecting their personal experiences of the COVID-19 pandemic. In March 2024, Memorarte produced a series of arpilleras to be displayed in protests calling for a ceasefire in Gaza, in response to the ongoing genocide of Palestinians. These initiatives signal a new global geography of textile activism, one that harnesses the connective power of the internet to share stories, galvanize collective action, and engage audiences far beyond their locality.

Bordadoras en Resistencia (March 2021)

Members of Memorarte (October 22, 2024)

Colombia

Colombia has a rich tradition of using fabric art as a means to record communal memory and lived experience. Today, it’s estimated that there are approximately forty-eight active needlework groups across the country. Many of these collectives illustrate the deep connection between textile practices and geographic space, particularly in the context of displacement and conflict. Several groups have created works that reflect their personal and collective experiences of Colombia’s internal armed conflict, which began in 1964 and officially ended with a peace accord in 2016. However, violence has not entirely ceased, and in recent years, many former combatants and peace signatories have been killed.

For context, Colombia’s modern conflict can be traced to La Violencia, a brutal civil war from 1948 to 1958, which left the national government in Bogotá with fractured authority and ushered in a “system of violence” that set the stage for decades of conflict. The 52-year war primarily involved the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) and the state, but also included powerful far-right paramilitary groups such as the United Self-Defence Forces of Colombia (AUC). The AUC became one of the largest landowners in Colombia (with holdings estimated at $2.4 billion) as well as profiting heavily from the drug trade. They were responsible for widespread massacres of peasants, union leaders, and individuals suspected of sympathizing with leftist insurgencies. While the government focused on combating the FARC, the AUC carried out widespread violence with little interference.

During the 1990s and 2000s, Colombia’s justice system failed to adequately investigate and prosecute homicides, with the prosecution rate for murders dropping from 35 percent in the 1970s to just 6 percent by the late 1990s. In 2000 alone, more than 4,000 Colombians were victims of political murder, 19,300 were forcibly disappeared, 300,000 were displaced, and guerrilla and paramilitary forces carried out around 1,500 kidnappings.

Much like the role the Church played in supporting arpilleristas in Chile, the Mennonite Central Committee (MCC) in Colombia helped establish the Reconciliation and Accompaniment of Victims Project (RAV). Rooted in principles of justice, dignity, truth, and healing, RAV aimed to provide holistic support to those affected by the armed conflict. For the MCC, reconciliation is not only personal but also deeply political and spiritual.

In 2005, Teresa Geiser, an MCC worker, introduced the idea of “sewing their story” as a psychosocial support intervention for women in the Afro-Colombian community of Mampuján. Located in the Montes de María region of the Caribbean coast, Mampuján was attacked by AUC paramilitary forces on March 10–11, 2000. Eleven civilians were massacred in the neighbouring settlement of Las Brisas, and 1,200 residents were forcibly displaced. Through textile work, the women of Mampuján have asserted their voice in Colombia’s history, centring the experience of African and Afro-descendant communities abandoned by state institutions.

By stitching their stories of violence and resilience, these women found a path to healing. Their tapestries have been exhibited across the country and used as testimonial evidence at Colombia’s first public audience for justice and reparations, where their attackers were formally recognized and sentenced. The Mampuján women’s collective exemplifies how textile art can serve as both a medium of mourning and a powerful tool for truth-telling, advocacy, and healing in the wake of political violence.

Desplazamiento (Displacement), a quilt made by the collective Mujeres Tejiendo Sueños y Sabores de Paz (Women Knitting Dreams and the Taste of Peace), recalls the traumatic events of March 2000. Created by fifteen surviving women from Mampuján, the quilt depicts scenes of military presence and harassment, with villagers shown in states of fear and distress. One home is ablaze, and the urgency is palpable as people flee, some carrying only a few belongings, others holding children in their arms, or transporting loved ones too frail to walk in hammocks. The collective continues to work together today, advocating for the rights and visibility of the displaced Mampuján community.

Teresa Geiser’s proposal to use quilting as a form of social healing resonated with the community’s existing textile traditions. The women of Mampuján already possessed deep knowledge of sewing, passed down through generations. The accessibility of materials, scraps of fabric, thread, and needles, also made quilting a practical form of expression. While Desplazamiento is not formally classified as an arpillera, it shares many visual characteristics: a flattened perspective, stylized figures, and bright colours that stand in stark contrast to the violence being portrayed. This juxtaposition is heartbreaking; what seems naive or childlike becomes deeply unsettling.

The appearance of these quilts and arpilleras as “deskilled” (despite needlework requiring time, care, and technical knowledge) highlights their handmade quality, foregrounding the humanity behind the work. Its human touch reminds viewers that behind every act of political violence or displacement are real people with names, memories, and relationships—individuals who continue to live with the consequences of state abandonment and systemic injustice.

Las mujeres de Tejiendo Sueños y Sabores de Paz, Desplazamiento / Displacement, Mampuján, 2010. Source: “Transforming threads of resistance: political arpilleras & textiles by women from Chile and around the world” (2012) at the University of Massachusetts Amherst.

Artesanías Choibá, Choibá Atratenõ, 2003, Source: Archivo Digital de Textiles Testimoniales.

Displacement is also central to the work of the collective Artesanías Choibá, which emerged during a crisis between 1997 and 2000, when 2,492 people were displaced and took refuge in and around the municipal coliseum in the city of Quibdó, located in the Chocó region of western Colombia. In 2003, the initiative Atratiando: por un buen trato al río Atrato organized a "collective embarkation" from the port of Quibdó to Turbo, asserting the right to freely navigate the Atrato River. Since 1996, transportation has been restricted by blockades, threatening the livelihoods and social, economic, and cultural practices of Afro-Colombian and Indigenous communities that rely on the river.

In response, Artesanías Choibá collectively created a rectangular textile piece made from stitched fabric strips arranged to evoke the stripes of the Colombian flag. The piece includes a poem embroidered with phrases such as “strong roots, jungle, life and strength” and “my life and my blackness,” emphasizing the deep connection between the community and the land, a relationship built on mutual reliance and resilience. As one collective member explained, “the choibá is a strong tree, and it resists as we have resisted all discrimination, humiliation, and mistreatment.”

The embroidered motifs reflect this kinship with the environment: choibá trees, caimans, jaguars, wooden houses, and fishermen all reflect aspects of life that were disrupted or lost during displacement. By exhibiting the textile at public events, marches, and sit-ins, Artesanías Choibá not only made their work visible but also used it as a tool for political mobilization, amplifying their demands and affirming the community’s right to live, move, and work in their ancestral territories.

Fuentes Rojas members embroidering for Bordando por la paz 2015–16, Mexico City

Mexico

Finally, turning to Mexico, the spirit of resistance and protest seen in Chile and Colombia continues in response to the country’s ongoing “War on Drugs” and a series of man-made environmental crises. The war officially began in 2006, when newly inaugurated President Felipe Calderón deployed the military to combat organized crime. This militarized approach led to a dramatic escalation in violence, with official government figures reporting over 275,000 people killed and more than 80,000 disappeared. Nearly 39,000 unidentified bodies remain in public cemeteries and morgues across the country.

In response to this widespread, senseless violence, the embroidery project Bordando por la Paz y la Memoria (Embroidering for Peace and Memory) was launched in 2011. Its goal is to memorialize the victims by stitching their names and stories onto white handkerchiefs, using red thread, and displaying them in public spaces such as plazas and parks. These collective acts of mourning and protest foster community engagement and reclaim public space. The project has expanded across multiple cities, including Fuentes Rojas in Mexico City, Bordando por la Paz Puebla in Puebla, and Bordando por la Paz Nuevo León in Monterrey, with international participants from Spain, Canada, France, Argentina, and Japan.

This essay focuses on Fuentes Rojas, the collective that initiated the national movement. The name, which translates to “Red Fountains,” refers to their first public intervention: dyeing the water of Mexico City fountains red to symbolize the bloodshed. The embroidery campaign that followed aimed to embroider the name of each person killed in the war on drugs—one victim, one handkerchief. The group had two main objectives: to provoke awareness and outrage among those not directly affected by the violence, and to document every victim, regardless of their background or affiliation.

London, Mexico Solidarity with Movimiento Jaguar Despierto, The Wretched of the Earth, Expresión Inka, and BP or not BP?, We Are Seeds, 2010

Fuentes Rojas, 2016, Mexico City. Translation: “Rest in peace, man who was executed and then thrown from a moving car, near the Villa Fontana neighbourhood in Tijuana, Baja California Norte, on March 16, 2011.” Source: Danielle House. "Bordando por la paz y la memoria: Resisting the Narco-machine."

Mexican sociologist Rossana Reguillo describes the dehumanization and criminalization of victims by mainstream media and political discourse as the work of the “narco-machine," a system that distances society from the victims of violence. By associating victims with drug trafficking and criminality, this narrative allows the public to dismiss their deaths as somehow justified. As journalist Corrie Boudreaux explains, “In Mexico, death by violence is often a stigma, with victims presumed to have been ‘involved in something.’... According to such circular reasoning, the dead deserved to die, and we know this because they are dead.” The narco-machine enables state impunity by shifting the blame for violence onto the victims themselves.

In response, the collective and ongoing public memorial of Bordando por la Paz y la Memoria serves as an act of resistance. Through embroidery, the project rehumanizes the dead and disappeared, creating space for their families and loved ones to grieve, remember, and heal. On the final day of President Felipe Calderón’s term, the handkerchiefs were displayed in the center of Mexico City, transforming the abstract toll of his security policies into a visible and tangible reckoning with their human cost.

Recalling the arpilleristas in Chile, a collaborative effort between grassroots groups—Movimiento Jaguar Despierto, London Mexico Solidarity, BP or Not BP, The Wretched of the Earth, and Expression Inka—produced an arpillera that illustrates Mexico’s current political, environmental, and social struggles. We Are Seeds weaves together three powerful narratives: it denounces the forced disappearance of 43 students from Ayotzinapa in Iguala in 2014, highlights the community-based resistance of indigenous peoples in Chiapas, and recalls the 2010 BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, the largest accidental ocean spill in history. Embroidered across the piece are the words, “They thought they could bury us, but they did not know that we are seeds,” evoking the resilience of those marginalized by the Mexican government’s failed policies and actions.

In 2015, BP and the Mexican government hosted a “Day of the Dead” festival at the British Museum. In response, the political textile collective Stitched Voices included We Are Seeds in the provocative exhibition A History of BP in 10 Objects, displayed in the museum’s foyer. This unofficial protest aimed to advance the decolonization of public institutions and advocate for a fossil-free future that respects indigenous and frontline communities.

This essay has explored only a few of the many collectives across Latin America using needlework to build communities of resistance and healing. Countries like Peru, Nicaragua, Argentina, and even Ireland, home to many Chilean exiles in the late 20th century, continue this legacy through embroidery, weaving, and patchwork.

By examining collectives such as Memorarte in Chile, Mujeres Tejiendo Sueños y Sabores de Paz and Artesanías Choibá in Colombia, and Fuentes Rojas in Mexico, we see that craft can be a profoundly transformative medium, adapting to the emotional and political needs of its makers. These workshops create spaces where artisans share and process painful experiences resulting from state violence and enforced silence. As Colombian Mennonites observed, “to work for peace is to remember.” Acknowledging individual truths transforms them into shared histories and fosters personal healing, reclaiming dignity and agency through acts of collective resistance.

These needlework collectives play a crucial role in social, political, and economic justice by confronting corruption, poverty, environmental degradation, racism, and gender discrimination. While the arpilleristas of the 1970s to 1990s relied on discretion and clandestine networks to circulate their work, contemporary artisans, despite ongoing threats, make their voices heard through protests, public gatherings, and social media. As visually striking and meaningful mediums, arpilleras, quilts, and embroidered handkerchiefs serve both as enduring archives that challenge dominant national narratives and as vibrant symbols of hope and justice today.

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