Shereen Quttaineh: 'For countless generations, Palestinians foraged and harvested the fruits of their land, from wild plants like tumble thistle (Akkoub), medicinal thyme (Za’atar), and wild sage (Meramieh) to cultivated staples like olives, oranges, and watermelons.
Like all other facets of their lives, their autonomy over their own food is under occupation. In addition to confiscating farmlands and uprooting centuries-old fruit trees, the occupation imposes oppressive laws forbidding Palestinians from picking and growing the plants that comprise their culinary, medicinal, and cultural traditions. Despite this, Palestinians continue to find ways to resist.
Each tatreez motif documents a “Forbidden Plant of Palestine,” carrying a story of connection and resilience, offering a reminder of the enduring bond between the people and the land that nurtures them.
Palestinian women have long documented their stories and surroundings through embroidery, preserving history and identity in every stitch. Through creating my own motifs for the plants that Palestinians are restricted from accessing on their own land, I am continuing this tradition—using thread as a form of resistance. This project is my way of documenting apartheid, reclaiming narratives, and strengthening my connection to my roots and identity. Each tatreez motif is a testimony of endurance, belonging, and the fight to keep our heritage alive.
I created these motifs to be used for non-commercial purposes. The Palestinian cause is not for sale and should not be exploited for profit. If you wish to share or use these motifs, proper credit is required.
If you would like the pdf booklet for the designs dm me.'
Hi! I had a question regarding colors and prints on hanfu. In Western society, there’s an emphasis on making sure children’s clothing is gendered (i.e. the “pink aisle”). Was this a thing with traditional Chinese fashion as well?
Hi! Thanks for the question, and sorry for taking ages to reply! (boy's hanfu photo via 小名子曰):
Generally speaking, no -- gendering children's clothing by color was not a thing with traditional Chinese fashion.
Historically in China, color was associated with social class, not gender, as the use of color was influenced by social status and economic ability. Expensive dyes were mostly used by the nobility, while commoners wore colors made from natural dyes.
Common colors for children's clothing - both boys and girls - included red, blue, green, white, beige, and light gray. Red was one of the most popular colors in children's clothing, symbolizing good fortune, happiness, and warding off evil. Blue was commonly worn because its dyes were relatively easy to obtain. Green was often used in everyday clothing and represented youth and vitality. Neutral and light colors were often used for baby swaddling clothes, underwear, and summer clothing. Below - recreations of red, blue, and beige boys' hanfu from the Song (left) & Ming (right) dynasties:
You can see the use of these common colors - red, blue, green, white, beige - in the below paintings from the Song and Ming dynasties. Paintings 1-3 (Song & Ming) each depict an older sister with her younger brother (1/2/3); paintings 4-5 (Song) depict boys at play (1/2); and paintings 6-7 (Ming) depict girls at play (1/2):
Colors that are now considered "for girls" in the West were worn by children of both genders. For example, pink was often referred to as "light scarlet" and was considered a version of red. Red tones (including light scarlet) were often worn by the wealthy and powerful due to the preciousness of the dyes and the complexity of the processing. Therefore, boys of upper-class families would wear pink as a reflection of status. Below - first row: recreations of pink boys' hanfu from the Ming (left) & Song (right) dynasties; second row: paintings of pink girls' hanfu from the Tang dynasty (x):
Purple was also worn by boys of noble/royal families as a reflection of status and privilege, given the expensive cost of purple dye. Below - recreations of purple boys' clothing from the Song (left) & Qing (right) dynasties:
When it came to prints/patterns, boys' clothes were more likely to display dragons and tigers, while girls' clothes were more likely to display phoenixes and butterflies, but most patterns were gender-neutral. For example, the below recreations depict floral patterns on boys' hanfu from the Ming (left) & Song (right) dynasties:
The historical lack of gendered colors and prints allows people recreating children's hanfu to take inspiration from depictions of any gender, as seen below in this adorable recreation of a Tang dynasty boy's hanfu worn by a girl (x):
For more references, please see my childrens hanfu, colors, prints, patterns, motifs, and unisex tags.
One of my favorite motifs to give Vast avatars when im visualising them is a pattern for a traditional Indonesian type of cloth called Batik. The pattern name is Mega Mendung, which translates to “The Clouds Cover up The Sunshine” or “Cloudy Sky” (depending on translation), and it originated from a region in Indonesia called Cirebon. The main motif of this pattern is obviously clouds, or a sea of them.
This is how the pattern looks like:
The pattern can be seen in a few other Asian cultures, because it is inspired by many other visual art of its time, but there are distinct differences in them that differentiates them such as it's shape and colour. In Chinese culture, the clouds are more circular, but in Cirebon, the clouds are almost angular.
Aside from the obvious visuals, the meaning behind this pattern is also Vast aligned. There are a few philosophies behind the Mega Mendung pattern:
1. Calmness - the pattern represents both royalty or godliness (above the clouds) and a sense of calmness. This, I feel, is very Vast aligned as both Mike Crew & Simon Fairchild portray a less caring unsettling calmness when confronted by Jon.
2. Holding anger - the pattern also holds the traditional meaning that every human being must be able to control their anger when they are in a depressed, sad and depressed condition. I think this is best explained by Mike Crew’s situation, or how he let go of Jon after making his statement.
3. Free and open sky - The concept of clouds in mega mendung batik itself signifies limitless freedom. This is typically manifested in the distant distances between clouds within each batik motif. Furthermore, the color blue is also said to symbolize the expansive, friendly, and serene sky. This speaks for itself, I think.
The pattern itself can be used in all occasions and essentially represents a skyward freedom. Which is very Vast, in my opinion!
Anyway, yeah :D!! Just wanted to tell yall about this specific batik pattern i keep doing in my vast related doodles
Sun pecking skin. Petticoats swishing—the Hopewell dances upon the sea. You disembark; beech heels clacking against oak.
The chorus of livestock. Yeomen baying. A child's jaw slackening at ‘The New World'. You inhale deeply; eyes fluttering—the tang of salt upon your lips.
“For ye.” His voice a caress amidst the tempest—lids snap open. “A comely damsel deserves beautiful posies.” Heat blooms.
“Thank ye.” Fingers brush flesh.
“I’m Steven.” A cough. Flaxen locks sway with each rasp. “H—” His throat clears. “He’s James.” Lips twitch. Eyes crinkle. Your nose skims a silky rose.
As always—you remember. Your loves forget. Vines entwine—the memory loops; transcending time.
Time is without death... A shadow upon the sun dial; click-click-click—you wind granddaddy’s pocket watch... Death is the fulfilment of time.
Laughter—yeomen in a merry pin. Music—Goodman Banner gaily plays the fiddle. Blue adorns trees. “A country dance is an unseasonable revel. Since the Boston massacre, Pa believes war is inevitable.” Natalya toys with a ribbon waving against the oak.
“What cheer, cousin?” You flinch; palm covering your bosom. Cool metal—the pendant lying upon your breast. A beautiful gold rose.
“Pray, excuse me, cousin. To affright you was not my intent.” Clint withdraws a step. Fingers tapping the flap of his cocked hat. “My good friends simply wish for an introduction. May I present Captain Rogers. Sergeant Barnes.” He presses a fingertip against twitching lips.
Parchment crinkling—a snap of linen. Captain Rogers tugs at his hunting shirt; Sergeant Barnes cups your palm. Warmth; lips graze flesh.
“We hope for the pleasure of your company this evening.” James murmurs. —Life anew. Souls eternally bound. Once again, love blooms.
“How do you do, dearest?” You haste; foot catching upon a hoop. Huffing. “This crinoline cage is of such sizeable girth, I fear I shan't fit through your parlour door.” The apples of Wanda's cheeks rise. She nods towards two sirs taking tea upon the veranda. Warmth blooms.
Heat—the whisper of breath. “Father's business partners. Yesterday's report in ‘The Herald’— Oh, it’s terrible.” She clasps your wrist. “Railroad stock values are declining. I dread—” Her voice breaks. Fingers squeeze tighter. “Losing the estate is simply a question of time.”
“Oh, sister.” You inhale sharply; corset biting your ribs. “The Mormon Rebellion destroys us all. Papa too, is facing bankruptcy.” Head shaking. “We must stem the tide together.” You sweep a glove-clad thumb beneath her eye; purple smudges crisp upon pale flesh.
Pebbles crunch; footfalls along the gravel pathway. “My dear child. Darling goddaughter.” He bows. “Pray join us.” Elbow linking Wanda’s—you follow. His rustic cane scritching stone—a musical melody of gravel dancing with oak.
Step. Step. Step. Lungs constricting; eyes drifting shut… Thrum. Thrum. Thrum—Stevie’s heart flutters beneath your ear. Click. Click. Click—James maps your jaw with gentle lips…
An introduction; cheeks flush. The gentlemen bow; warmth blossoms. You curtsy; butterfly wings ripple within the belly. Breath hitches—a hint of their Eau de Cologne, damask rose.
Cutlery clanking against porcelain. “Hey!” Fingers snake your wrist. “We only serve payin’ customers. If table two keeps ordering dog soup, get rid.” A shove; you wince—the countertop jarring your spine. Children squeal—their chubby legs kicking chrome, the stools a bright rose.
Grasping a rag—knuckles translucent—you scrub the bar top; hips jerking. “I have their order, sir. Lemonade—” Fingering the coins in your apron pocket. “And two slices of war cake. Oh—” The cloth stills. “We should alter the menu. War cake, depression cake—it dampens one’s spirits. I use orange blossoms in the mix, so why not call it ‘orange blooms’.”
“Here’s an idea.” His finger jabs your breast. “I pay ya for bakin’.” He snatches up the rag. “And for waitressin’. Do ya job. And stop lettin’ people use my business as a damn soup kitchen.” A sting. Eyes watering—the cloth whips your flesh. “Now, get servin’, and zip ya lips.”
Hands yank on the boss’ shirt collar—the linen tawny with sweat stains. “A slice of ‘orange blooms’ sounds mouthwatering, doesn’t it, Stevie?” A spluttering cough; the boss’ jowls turning puce. “Offer the young lady an apology, and I won’t toss you into the trash cans out back… This time.”
The aging wood stove groans. Whoosh—your breath hitches. Hiss—the boss stutters an apology. Crackle—fingertips lightly graze your elbow. Pop—a chestful of the woodsy aroma, oak…
Burnt orange—embers winking. Snap; Steve drops an oak log into the hearth. Shadows dancing upon flesh; your fingers sketch patterns along smooth skin. Until… Their hands clasp yours. The flutter of warm breath in your ear—Steve… “Miss, are you all right?” You blink slowly. Once. Twice. “Miss. Do we— Have we met before?” Lips twitch. Cheeks lift. Flesh skims flesh.
A snowy handkerchief—sopping with tears. Two sheets of acidic paper; the contents bubbling within your throat—a sob tears through you. “D-damn this war.” Hands crumple the yellow telegrams; another rip, more creases. The weight of its words heavy against flesh.
Tossing the papers—a light thunk—they ricochet upon checkerboard flooring. Smash. An earthenware cup—full with sweet tea—follows. Golden droplets trace the wall… Bucky’s thumbs blot the tears mapping your cheeks. “It’s my duty. Oh, please don’t cry, my beautiful rose.”
Hands reach out. Pit-a-pat—his heart beneath your palm. “How can I not cry?” A scoff—razor-sharp—bursts out. “Steve’s ‘Four-F’ status doesn’t deter him. The army’ll take him eventually, too. A-and—” An ache; the lump in your throat growing bigger. “S-soon all will remain of us is a worn photograph set in oak...”
Three rhythmic raps upon oak. A cry; palm clutching your breast. Tick-tock—a fourth knock. “Mrs. Rogers?” Feet shuffle. The crystal doorknob crisp within your grasp; timber groans... A stranger tips his bowler hat. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers.” Clearing his throat. “For you.” Eyes red, he proffers a bouquet of posies. “Cap ‘n’ Bucky always spoke of your love for wildflowers, so I thought I’d pick these blooms.”
“Thank. You—” A beautiful burst of color. Plum—the fruit preserve you often cook for Bucky. Tink. Tink. His spoon scraping the jar clean. Crimson—the roses Steve always gifts you. Kisses upon a soft jaw; his cheeks flushing. Gold—your trinity wedding ring; a band symbolizing each of you. You’ll meet them again… A sob. In time.
You press the flowers against your heart. Teardrops trailing along satiny petals. “Oh. To hell with propriety.” Arms—warm, sturdy—encircle you. “Name’s Timothy Dugan.” He gently rocks you. To. Fro. “But as your Cap ‘n’ Bucky’s girl, you call me ‘Dum Dum’. We’re gonna watch out for you now. Howling Commandos look after their own.” Sinking into the embrace; a keening cry tears past your lips.
Dry leaves rustling—the flutter of pages. Book heavy in your palm—flesh grazes the spine; binding craggy with creases… Schliff—Bucky turns the page. Breathing life into Tolkien; his chest thrums beneath yours… The hum of the shopkeeper’s bell. “Welcome to ‘Hearts of O’—” A broken laugh—eyes welling. The book slips; fingers press against your lips.
“How?” His voice—no longer thin, but resonant. “Why?” His jaw—once soft, now chiseled—locks. “We thought—” Head shaking. “Is it truly you?” Mouth dry; you nod. “Then… Everything else is neither here nor there.” One blink; footsteps—two sets. Two blinks—warm skin, cool metal. A third blink—weightless in their arms; flesh caresses flesh.
“Our story began over a millennia ago. In the hub of Rome.” Palms cup their cheeks; one smooth, the other bristly. “Though together—peace within the noise. Until…” The pungent stench of rotting corpses… Your belly lurches. “The Eclipse Plague.” Eyes squeeze shut… Shouts on your heels. “Scelesta—wicked woman. Impura—unclean. Luppiter te disperdāt—may Jupiter utterly destroy you.” Lungs bursting; you run… Pressure upon your crown—Bucky’s chin. “With the plague claiming so many, Roma set about searching for scapegoats.” A sob. “Such stolen time.”
Tick. Tick. Tick. Chests rising, falling—with each silent breath. “You fought for us…” Flagellorum sibilus—whips whistle. Thwack—metal tips bite gentle flesh… “Crimson wept upon linen...” Fingers slip beyond your grasp—Steven. A body slumps against you—Bucky… “My final breath; I clung onto our necklace—the garland of roses.”
“Rose—” Metal cooling your hot cheek; you lean into the delicate touch. “Always our beautiful rose.” Your hair fluttering; Bucky utters a broken chuff. “Flashes. Fragments Hydra couldn’t erase. The Althing—woolen cloaks with fur linings… Sunlight kissing our skin at a country jig…” His gaze shifts. “We found her, Stevie.” Lips peck your temple. “And she always blooms.”
Steve’s arms—not willowy, but broad—tighten. The hug—stalwart as always. “This bookstore—the name. It’s us, isn’t it?” You nod. His mouth claims Bucky’s… Then yours. Lips still soft. Woodsy scent—home. His whisper drifts through the hush. “‘Hearts of Oak’.”
A gentle sigh—time breathes… Scritch—graphite brushes paper. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Silence—Steve’s pencil stills; Bucky’s brow puckers. “I can’t steer myself into your path. I’ve gotta trust it’ll happen organically—as fate intends.” Fingers interlace. Click—your lips graze Steve’s knuckles. A chill; mouth tingling—a kiss upon Bucky’s steel arm. “There’s beauty in trusting it, isn’t there?”
“I guess. Though—” Bed sheets rustling. A hint of oak—Bucky nuzzling your cheek. “I’m certain Stevie will agree, this curve—” Fingertips—featherlight—flutter along your hip; a squeal of laughter. You squirm. “Is where the true beauty lies. Whaddya say, Cap?” The prickle of whiskers; Bucky pressing kisses against your flesh.
“Cap says—” He waggles his pencil. “Keep still, you two. You’re modeling for his portrait. Clamping your lips together; you salute. Bucky leans in; ssshhh—he whispers in your love’s ear. Steve’s cheeks flush a deep rose; he tosses the sketchpad aside. “Photographic memory—I’ll finish it tomorrow.” Mint—lips capture yours—Steve’s toothpaste. A quiet breath; you draw lazy circles against their skin. “We should retire, Buck. Swap the compound for our girl’s bookstore. No missions—only us. All day, every day.” Foreheads touching, they lay their heads upon your breast. —A full life blooms.
